


Keeper (Agnates in Elysium)

by Dee_Laundry



Series: My Fathers' Son [28]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-15
Updated: 2007-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson’s son Jack passes one of life’s crossroads and makes an unexpected connection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Begins in June 2033. Set in an AU that crosses over with simple__man’s Churchverse, which began with [Brilliant](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/885960.html). Grateful appreciation to Daisylily for beta and to simple__man for creating something wonderful and letting me play with it. Thanks as well to little_himself, anamatics, and thedeadparrot for letting me explore intriguing characters that they created.

The drugstore was considerably shabbier than Jack Wilson remembered it from his interview. But it was walking distance to the apartment, and they'd agreed to give him the hours he preferred – noon to eight, giving him the whole morning to write and most of the evening to spend with Mary – so it would definitely do.

"You a detective?"

Startled, he looked around until he noticed the man leaning up against the building several feet from the front door, smoking a cigarette. It suddenly struck Jack that he'd never seen a person his own age smoke in public.

"No, I'm not a cop. Why do you ask?"

The man shook his head, his dark brown curls flopping lazily. "Only people who wear ties in this neighborhood are detectives. And I don't need the hassle." He took a short drag off the cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air.

"I'm starting here today as a pharmacist," Jack explained. "You're a nicotine addict? There are these new time-release pills that –"

The guy flicked the cigarette into the street without bothering to put it out. "Not an addict. Those things can kill you. But smoking 'em looks damn cool."

As he pushed away from the wall and turned toward the door, Jack noticed he was wearing a nametag from the drugstore.

"You work here, too, Chris? My name's Jack. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The guy looked at Jack's outstretched hand for a moment, and then ignored it in favor of glaring at him. "My name's not Chris."

"You stole Chris's nametag?" Jack asked.

Not-Chris snorted a quick laugh. "Never thought of that possibility. Good one." He shook his head, and then pushed his curls back from his face. "Chris is one form of my name, but it's not what I go by."

Minutes were ticking by, and Jack didn't want to be late his first day. But somehow it felt important to finish this conversation. "Then why is it on your nametag?"

"Because I had to put something and the dipshit manager wouldn't let me put 'Death' like I wanted."

Jack found that his hands had made their way to his hips. "Why didn't you just put the name you go by?"

"Because that's reserved for people who aren't idiots. And none of the customers or employees in this store qualify." Not-Chris pulled open the door to the store and smiled extremely insincerely at a woman who was leaving with her three squalling kids in tow. After her departure, he waved Jack in.

"So what should I call you?" Jack asked as he straightened his tie.

"Depends," replied not-Chris, stepping off toward the front registers. "Are you an idiot?"

***

Jack took special care over his first week at work to meet all of the employees at the drugstore: pharmacists, assistants, clerks, management. Believing as he did that people lived to the expectations placed on them, whether high or low, he tried hard not to concur with not-Chris's assessment of all-encompassing idiocy.

It was difficult.

By the work schedule posted in the break room, Jack and "Chris" had overlapping shifts every Monday and Thursday, but he didn't actually lay eyes on the man again until three weeks later.

Jack had been enjoying a quiet, pleasant dinner in the empty break room when the door banged open with enough force to shake the hinges. He could hear the night manager Louis hiss, "Chris!"

"Dinner!" not-Chris hissed back, but he closed the door quietly behind him.

"The damned door's made of industrial steel; there's no way it's going to break. I don't know what he's worried about," he commented on his way to the refrigerator.

Jack continued to eat his dinner. "Maybe he thinks it might look bad to a customer."

"Which one?" not-Chris called from behind the refrigerator door, over the clank and bang of whatever he was messing with in there. "The bored old lady who's been talking Ramone's ear off for the last ten minutes? The cranky, sleep-deprived new mom who's wandering the store so she doesn't have to go home and deal with her colicky baby? Or the moron trying to buy cigarettes with food stamps? Because that's all the customers we got as of this moment."

He walked away from the refrigerator empty handed and peered at Jack's meal. "What's wrong with your food?"

Surprised, Jack took a quick scan of everything to reassure himself it still looked good. Looking up, he said, "Nothing's wrong with it."

"Where's the meat?"

"Nowhere. It's just Portobello and roasted eggplant in here," – he raised the larger container – "and three-bean salad in there." He pointed to the smaller container with his fork and then went back to eating.

"You can't have dinner without meat." Not-Chris was leaning over the table, sniffing at the food. "Didn't your mama raise you right?"

Jack pulled the containers closer to him, and countered, "My mama didn't raise me at all."

Not-Chris opened his eyes wide in an expression many people would have interpreted as sincerely interested. Jack had seen it many times on his own father and figured it to be instead sarcastic in the extreme. He goggled back briefly and then returned his attention to his food.

"Are you insulting your mother," not-Chris asked, "or hinting around for sympathy because you're an orphan? Bet it's the orphan one. It'd explain your level of screwed-up-ness to have taken a job here." He grabbed Jack's lunch bag and shoved a hand in it. The bulging of the sides as his fingers prodded and probed reminded Jack of the very old Bullwinkle cartoons, in which Bullwinkle could never quite pull a rabbit out of his hat.

After a few futile seconds, not-Chris threw the bag back on the table. "Why don't you have chips or something to balance out all those vitamins?"

"There's a vending machine right there; buy your own damn chips. And I'm not screwed up, and I'm not an orphan. I was raised by two parents who loved me very much. Just neither of them was a mother."

"Ha," not-Chris replied. Even from the other side of the room, waiting for his Funyuns to drop, he was still trying to eye Jack's food. Jack drew the plastic containers even closer.

"So little Jackie had two daddies?" not-Chris scoffed as he dropped into the chair opposite Jack. Munching away, he swung his feet up onto the table, the soles of his shoes dangerously near Jack's food. Jack covered one of the containers and brought the other up close to his chest.

He concentrated on controlling his expression and voice, eliminating any and all defensiveness. His fathers had loved each other and loved him; he was proud of his family. People who wanted to criticize or scorn could do it on their own time.

"Yes," he said simply, and continued eating.

"Wouldn't have thought a rainbow-flag family could produce such a Johnny Upright kind of guy. Whereas I," not-Chris mumbled around the Funyuns, and then coughed, choking a little. Jack passed him a soda, from which he took a long swig. "Whereas I," he began again, "like every normal kid, was raised by a Dad and a Mom."

Jack snatched back his soda before it disappeared completely, planted it on the table, and picked up the eggplant. _Water off a duck's back_ , he told himself, and wasn't that a hoary old chestnut of a cliché?

A tap of plastic against plastic brought Jack's attention back on not-Chris, who had at some point found a second fork and grabbed Jack's three-bean salad and was currently scraping the last few beans into one corner of the container. He looked at Jack and smirked.

"Of course, Mom's got a penis, but we can't hold that against him. Actually, Dad probably holds it against him, but that's a horrible pun, and I try not to think about it anyway."

In one swift, graceful move, he swept the beans into his mouth, threw the container on the table, and rose from his chair. At the door of the break room, he turned back. "You can call me Church. Mind if I call you Johnny?"

Jack smiled and speared the last bit of Portobello. "If I say yes, that's what you'll call me, right?"

"Until the end of time," Church replied and walked out the door.

Jack chewed contemplatively and wondered if Church had to have the last word in every conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

The next Thursday night, after two more partially shared dinner breaks and three bouts of verbal jousting, Jack strolled up to Church after his shift.

“You’re off at nine, right? Want to go grab a beer?”

Church looked up from where he was re-stocking vitamins on the bottom shelf, and then straightened his back, rocked back on his haunches, and clutched his chest. “Why, Mister Johnny, are you asking little ole me out on a date?” he asked in a broad but passable imitation of an antebellum Southern belle.

Jack smiled. “I think my girlfriend might have a problem with me dating someone else.” Church turned back to the vitamins, grabbing the last few bottles out of the crate.

“So how about we just go out for a beer?” Jack continued.

His focus on arranging the bottles on the shelf, Church replied, “Or maybe we could get together and eat a bunch of caramels.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Church stood up, hiked the empty crate onto his hip, and started toward the stock room. “Sure, beer sounds good. You want to meet somewhere?”

Shaking his head, Jack walked alongside Church. “No, I’ll just hang out here in the break room and wait. I’ve got a book.”

“Suit yourself. Get it? ‘Suit’? Because you way over-dress for this store?”

Jack stepped out of the way of Church’s poking elbow and rolled his eyes. “See you at nine.”

“Lose the tie or I’m not going anywhere with you!” Church called as he disappeared.

Eighty minutes later, they were sitting at the bar in a dive pub two blocks from the store, pints of beer in front of them. Jack was counting the bottles of alcohol displayed and calculating the total volume by alcohol type in lieu of actually saying anything. What had flowed so easily in the store was awkwardly stunted now, and all Jack’s bravado had gone into making the invitation. He hadn’t saved any for small talk to ease them into a better conversation.

“Want to get something to eat?” Church asked offhandedly, and the earlier comment about candy flashed through Jack’s mind. He waited, sipping his beer, until Church had ordered fries and onion rings, and the bartender had moved away.

When silence threatened to loom again, Jack turned toward Church and gestured with his glass. “You said something earlier about eating candy together… caramels, that’s it. Why did that sound so familiar?”

Church’s lips quirked without actually forming a smile. “It’s a line from an old movie, from before we were born. Well, you were probably born in 1950, with the way you act, but it was before I was born, anyway.”

Concentrating, Jack frowned and stared at a brown bottle that was just darker than caramel candy. His mind skipped, tripped, stumbled, and finally pounced. “Hunting, something. About a young guy from South somewhere who solves the world’s toughest math problems. And his friend was played by Ben Affleck, way before his Oscar days.”

Church’s lips quirked further up; that expression was in real danger of becoming a smile. “It was called _Good Will Hunting_. The therapy scenes were all right – and those two professors were clearly the gay parents the guy never had – but the whole super-genius thing bugged me.”

“Why do they do that in the movies?” Jack asked, warming up to the subject. It had bothered him as well, for quite a while. “Why can’t characters just be smart? Why do they have to be super-genius, like you said, in the top one tenth of one percent?”

“And the geniuses are always totally crazy, too. Don’t forget that.”

“The movies aren’t great at portraying people with mental retardation, but they at least try to be sensitive there. Genius just gets stereotyped and gawked at.”

“Yeah,” Church said definitively, pounding his glass back down on the bar. He peeked at Jack out of the corner of his eye, and Jack peeked back.

Clearly they were both taking the subject personally. This could definitely be interesting.

They eyed each other for another minute until Church said, “So. IQ or SAT scores?”

“If we do IQ, which test? Stanford-Binet? WISC-R? Plomin’s Aptitudes? And at what age?”

“All right, all right. SAT scores, it is. Drop the Writing score, so it’s out of 1600?”

“Of course. Subjective piece of crap.” He looked over at Church, who was staring right at him. As they locked eyes, he felt like a gunslinger, for just a moment. “You first.”

“You picked SAT; you go first.”

He took a gulp of his beer for courage, and then let it fly. “1510.” _Kapow, middle of the forehead_.

“Oh,” Church said quietly, and looked down into his glass. “That’s a good score.”

Now that he’d flaunted his achievement, Jack felt a little bad. “It’s not that big a deal, anyway,” he said, knocking Church on the shoulder. “I mean, what relevance does it really have at this point?”

Church shrugged, still refusing to look at Jack. “It’s a good score,” he repeated. “But it’s not as good as, say, 1550.”

Jack closed his eyes against Church’s smirk. “Fuck!” He’d been had. “Fuck! What’d you get on the components? I got 800 Critical Reading, 710 Math.”

“770 Math, 780 Reading.” By the smile on Church’s face as he drained his glass, the beer was very sweet. Or the victory, one or the other.

“Fuck,” Jack commented again. It was his turn to look down and find wisdom at the bottom of a glass.

“Oh, come on, you baby.” Church gestured, and a second round of beers materialized in front of them. “You’re going to sulk because I beat you? Fine,” he sighed, in a voice of sarcastic surrender. “I’ll let you top me once – one time only – and then we’ll be even.”

“Top you?” Jack asked incredulously. “As in sex? How does me giving in to your desire to have sex make me even?”

“An uber-straight guy like you? Putting your dick in your foe’s ass is the ultimate symbol of power.” Church took the basket of fried nirvana from the bartender with a friendly nod and immediately grabbed a huge handful.

“You’re not my foe.” Jack sampled two fries, and then added salt across the whole basket. The ketchup went in as a pool off to the side. “And what makes you think I’m straight, anyway?”

Church rolled his eyes and swallowed his mouthful of food. “So many indicators to choose from. Here’s one: Have sex with me.”

Onion ring halfway to his mouth, Jack stopped. “No.”

“See?”

“Because I don’t want to have sex with you, that means I have to be straight.” The fries were good, but the onion rings were outstanding.

“Well, duh.” Church sucked the salt and grease off his thumb. “I’m gorgeous.”

“You’re not bad. But, A, I have a girlfriend, and B... yeah, OK, I’m straight. For now, anyway.”

“For now?” Church scoffed and took another sip of beer. “You’re a bit past puberty – it should be pretty clear.”

“Just because I’ve only been interested in women so far, doesn’t mean I might not be interested in a man in the future. My Pop didn’t fall in love with a guy for the first time until he was in his late thirties.”

“He was dicking them before then, though, I guarantee you.”

“I wouldn’t know; I’ve never asked him. Parents having sex, ugh.” Jack shuddered, and the onion ring between his fingers wobbled, crunchy coating and flecks of ketchup falling to the bar. “But I agree with Stephen Fry – it’s not about who you have sex with, it’s about who you want to spend your life with.”

“Gay Studies course in college?”

“Yep.”

“Class have a stupid title?”

“Eh, torturously long rather than stupid.”

“At least you got an A.”

“B minus,” Jack mumbled around another mouthful of French fries.

Church’s eyebrows raised as his glass lowered. “Seriously? I had you pegged as a straight-A straight guy. Your dads must have killed you.”

“Kind of. They were… preoccupied with something else at the time. I got As in everything else that semester; it didn’t hurt my GPA too badly.”

“Of course not. Johnny Upright would never let that happen. Even if he is a little defective in the brains department.”

“Hey! I thought we were going to let that slide.”

“We were, if you topped me. And a very generous offer on my part. I don’t hand that out to just anyone.” Church sighed dramatically. “But you turned me down and broke my heart, so you’ll have to settle for being the stupid one in our relationship.”

“Couldn’t I just be the straight one?”

Church fixed him with an intense gaze. If he hadn’t seen it a million times before on his own father, Jack might have felt nervous. “How do you know I’m not straight?” Church asked.

“So many indicators to choose from,” Jack mocked. “Here’s one: The near-constant declarations of wanting to have sex with me.” He thrust a French fry forward in demonstration.

“Well, the mood’s totally killed now, so you can wipe that off your agenda.” Church drank the last of his beer and nodded toward Jack’s fry before turning the other way. “Closet case,” he accused, as his eyes followed the sway of a very pretty petite woman’s hips on her way to the restrooms.

Jack watched as well. The rhythm of her hips was almost hypnotic, and he felt something primal rise in him. He quickly squelched it, however. Time enough for that later, at home, with Mary.

Church finally dragged his eyes away when the woman stepped out of sight. His hair bobbed as he turned back toward Jack, and his smile, while completely mischievous, was the most honest Jack had seen on him yet.

Jack was suddenly struck with the notion that Church was gorgeous. He glowed, when he let himself be open, and radiated energy even when he was completely closed off. Magnetism. A corny, over-used word but Church had it for sure.

Tipping his glass in salute, Jack smiled back. He clinked his glass against Church’s before letting himself look away. He’d been told by friends, teachers, classmates that he had a kind of pull on people, too. He’d found it hard to imagine but, with the repetition, had come to accept that maybe it was true.

He thought of that, as he nodded and grunted through Church’s next anecdote (a multi-person showering scene that Jack could’ve sworn was taken from a movie from three years back). Magnetism, pull, power. Who would lead? Who would follow? Would he be sucked into Church’s orbit? Or could there be some way for their orbits to overlap, twin planets with perfectly matched gravity?

Jack grimaced at his thoughts (coincidentally confirming Church’s assertion that a fifty-year-old gym teacher was not an appropriate addition to the shower room). He just met this guy – what the hell was he doing thinking all these things?

 _Damn_ , he thought, _what does this place put in the beer?_


	3. Chapter 3

A month later, and Thursday night beers were a regular thing for Jack and Church. Mary had grumbled that she barely got time with Jack as it was, but he'd dropped the large-eyed pleading look he'd copied from his Pop on her, and she'd reluctantly relented.

Then she met Church, at his most vivacious and charming, and forgot her reluctance. When Mary went to get them more wine, Church turned to him, exceptionally smug, and Jack felt unaccountably proud.

***

The food court was packed, and noisy, but Church managed to get the two of them a decent-sized, halfway-clean table by a wall. Jack suspected bribery and/or coercion might've been involved, but he was hungry and the food was hot.

Over a large platter of bad tempura and decent yakisoba, they debated the summer TV lineup. Church was pro-neo-reality and anti-viewer-scripted; Jack favored the remixed reruns.

"There's no authenticity any more!" Church protested, waving his chopsticks. "What's the point of futzing around with shows that were perfectly fine to begin with? Just because you change some dialogue, or a subplot, or the color of the characters' skin doesn't make it a new show. There's no originality in scripted TV any more, none at all."

Jack shrugged. "There's nothing new under the sun, as was pointed out over two thousand years ago. Last year's Oscar winner was a rip-off of West Side Story, which was a blatant remake of Romeo and Juliet, which was a dramatization of Brooke's poem, The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet, which traces its origins to the 1476 story of Mariotto and Gianozza of Siena by Salernitano. And I'm sure the first time someone read that, they thought, 'Hey, that reminds me of...'"

"Yeah, yeah, you made your point, Plato." Church had taken the opportunity to snag more than half of the remaining noodles, leaving the soggy fried vegetables to Jack.

Jack glared at him around a mouthful of mush and then took a new tack. "Besides, any fan of neo-reality can not claim to value authenticity."

"You're saying those scenes are faked? No way can stupidity like that be scripted. No writers are talented enough to come up with the crap those weirdos do. Like Hester! He's stunningly moronic."

Church proceeded to do a remarkably good imitation of the lisping, flailing, flamboyant teenager from Your Money or Your Life. If Jack hadn't been trying to finish his lunch, he would've belly-laughed himself sick, but unfortunately he could only snort and grin as he chewed.

The imitation was so successful – and ostentatious – that it caught the attention of a nearby table of boys in their late teens. They didn't seem to recognize the moves as Hester's, however, because they stared at Church as if he had two heads.

"Fucking fags," one of them snarled, and Jack was snapped out of his good mood.

He turned toward Church, who had dropped his hands and was staring at the surly teenager contemplatively. "Ohmigod," Church blurted suddenly, still imitating Hester's voice. He grasped Jack's arm and gestured. "Honey, that's the guy from the back wall at Bender's!"

Jack put on a puzzled expression that was only half faked. He looked back and forth between Church and the teen, and then broke out into a grin. "The one who asked us to do finger cuffs on him – you're right!"

Waggling his fingers at the boy, whose eyes had grown as big as saucers, he continued, "Hi, sweetie! That was so much fun!" He turned back to Church and said, "Honey, next time you have got to take the back position. The outside of his ass is lumpy and hairy, but the inside is so lovely tight."

"That would leave you getting the blow job." Church leaned in and stage-whispered, "Which frankly wasn't all that expert."

Jack swatted his arm and pushed him back to his own chair. "Don't be so harsh, darling. The poor little dear was just so excited he couldn't concentrate. Weren't you, sweetie?"

The teen's face had gone beet red, and his friends had edged their chairs a few inches away from him – in disgust or in fear his head would explode, Jack couldn't tell and didn't care. Glaring, the teen pushed back from the table and stalked past them on his way to the doors. "Fucking fags," he growled, his unimaginative repetition a nice illustration of Jack's earlier point.

"It's the non-fucking ones that are really sad," Church called poignantly after the teen and his friends in tow.

With a smirk, he turned back towards Jack and snatched Jack's soda. "Finger cuffs, huh? Done that before?"

"Nope," replied Jack as he grabbed his drink back. "Not so much as a threesome."

"Christ, you're boring," Church sighed, and began balling up the trash on their table.

"Yes, I am. I remembered 'finger cuffs' from this ancient movie called _Chasing Amy_." Jack blinked in surprise. "Which starred Ben Affleck, in fact. Why does he keep coming up in our conversations?"

"Because you've got a crush on him. Obviously. Give me the tray."

Jack retrieved the tray from under his chair and slid it onto the table; Church piled the trash on top in a structure that defied the normal laws of physics.

"I do not! He's like my Pop's age," Jack protested. "And a guy."

"Man crush then," offered Church as he rose from his chair.

"No crush at all. It's just a coincidence."

"Then why did you ask me why? Pointless question." Church dumped the trash in the can, managing somehow not to spill a crumb, and looked back at Jack expectantly.

Jack hauled his butt out of the chair and followed after Church. They ambled for a few minutes – Jack was there to buy a couple more dress shirts; Church had said he might pick up some belated Father's Day presents – until a thought occurred to Jack. "So, is there actually a Bender's in this town?"

"Yup," Church replied, popping the 'p' sound. "Jer and I went last week."

"Is there a back wall?"

Church's stare clearly said _dumbass_. "Upstate New York's going to have an open-air bar? Of course it's got a back wall."

Ducking around a mom and stroller, Jack rolled his eyes. "I meant: does it have a back wall that has activities like the ones you implied?"

"And you stated outright, you raunchy minx." Church pinched Jack's cheek and then veered off into a Hallmark store.

Jack followed Church into an aisle bedecked with more knick-knack-y crap than Jack had ever seen in his life, and reiterated his question. "Does it?"

"Don't believe everything you see in the movies. Do you think my Mom would like this?" Church shoved a sweet-smelling lace-covered box in Jack's face.

"You said he had a penis, so I'm going to go with no," Jack said with an involuntary sneer.

Church threw the trinket onto the wrong shelf and continued down the aisle. "You asked the wrong question, you know."

"What question? You told me your mom had a penis the first time you mentioned him."

Church waved him off and darted into the next aisle. "These calendars are cheap."

Jack sighed. "That's because it's after Fourth of July. Nobody needs a calendar now." He reached up to a nearby shelf and took down a box of very elegant but simple notecards. "Here."

"If you say so." Tucking it under his arm, Church headed toward the cashier. "The question you should've asked is 'Who's Jer?'"

"You're not getting a card?"

"Waste of money, when a short note in your very own hand makes Mom's eyes go misty and heart go flitter-flutter."

The cashier smiled at them as she rang up the purchase. "An actual letter to your mother; so sweet. I bet she's proud to have two sons like you."

"We're not married," Jack replied absently, mentally rearranging the displays near the cash register for a more harmonious appearance.

Church's eyes were bright as he smirked. "I think she was implying we're brothers."

The cashier nodded, clearly confused, and handed Church his bag. Jack smiled to put her at ease, but he wasn't sure it worked. "We're not that either, but thanks."

Church was still snickering as they headed down the escalator. "You're a weirdo."

"Takes one to know one," replied Jack, completely unfazed.

"To go back to the prior topic: Why didn't you ask me who Jer was?"

Jack shrugged. "I figured he was one of your friends. You're a great guy; you probably have a ton of friends I haven't met."

"Yeah," Church replied, looking away. "A ton."

***

Hey, Dad, it's Church.

Thank God you told me. Not being able to recognize your voice on my own, I would've had a hell of a time keeping up my half of the conversation while trying to piece together who you were just from context clues.

Whatever. So, I got myself a Wilson.

Wrapped around your little finger. That is, when he's not wrapped around my –

Dad, I'm not listening to that! This is somebody else who just happens to have the last name Wilson. His name's Jack; he's about my age; I met him at work.

I thought you said they were all idiots at your work.

They all are, except him. He's freaky smart, and he thinks about interesting ideas, and he knows how to handle bullshit.

Important skill in dealing with you.

I know, right? Nobody ever has a bad word to say about him, because he's just so pleasant, gets along with everyone. But there's something quirky going on under that buttoned down, friendly neighborhood pharmacist exterior. It's like he's a secret asshole, and nobody knows but me.

Sounds like you're in love. What about Jer?

Jer, well, Jer. I don't know. This thing with Jack, though, it's kind of like being in love, with one weird twist.

What?

I don't want to have sex with him.

Early-onset impotence, what a shame.

No. There are plenty of other people I want to have sex with, just not him.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary smiled happily as she moved around the apartment, chatting with various guests and refilling drinks. For Labor Day weekend, in a town they’d moved to just three months ago, they’d managed a very good turnout at this party. The people from Jack’s pharmacy were mingling well with her co-workers, and the students she’d met at her evening literature class added a different and lively dimension.

The food had come out nicely (the guacamole from Church’s mother’s recipe was particularly delicious), people had brought excellent wine, and everyone was having a good time: success. Mary turned to share her satisfaction with Jack and then realized she hadn’t seen him in a while.

The first few guests she asked hadn’t seen him either, but Ramone was able to direct her to the balcony. “Out there, still,” he said, and then continued his conversation with Jennifer, a cute redhead from Mary’s department. They were leaning close to each other, Jennifer’s hand lightly grazing Ramone’s forearm, and Mary felt another quiet wave of satisfaction. It was always gratifying to help people make a new connection.

Sipping her wine, she headed out of the kitchen toward the balcony, but at a certain point she was compelled to stop and just look. From where she was standing, Jack was perfectly framed, and she took in the sight of the tall, lean, attractive man she’d fallen for. He stretched and she sighed, remembering those strong arms around her, remembering tracing each of the muscles on his back one lazy Sunday afternoon. He dropped his arms and leaned forward on the railing, inclining his head to the left, talking with someone out there with him. He was happy; he was laughing; he was – smoking a cigarette.

Mary’s eyes widened, and her feet moved almost without her. Five, six, seven steps, and she was to the sliding glass door, through it, tucked onto the small rectangle of concrete with Jack and his companion. Church. Who else?

After a quick glance at Church’s laughing eyes, she looked up at Jack. He had whipped around and was now leaning back against the railing, hands behind his back, lips pressed tightly together. He nodded at her, eyes locked on hers, and she paid no heed to the gentle snorts escaping the man behind her.

She made him wait a beat, watched his lips strain and his neck grow tighter, before she said, “Let that out of your mouth before you choke.”

He turned his head to the side and the smoke came out in a stream and then a ball: a horizontal mushroom cloud. Mary was disappointed, and disappointed in herself for being disappointed.

Jack said, “I can explain,” which was absolutely not the right thing to say. She ignored it.

“Church, there’s a woman here from my class,” she said, now with her back to Jack, not shutting him out, just the only way she could stand on this tiny concrete slab not really made for three, “that I’d just love for you to meet. Would you come in with me?”

Church’s eyes had never stopped laughing and if she could tell where that laughter was aimed, she didn’t think she’d like it one bit. “Sure,” he said, and followed her inside.

Stepping into the light and space of the living room, Mary felt something fall away from her and a tension eased. Silly of her, to worry and fret.

For the next hour, Jack was by her side, talking with everyone, laughing. He’d put a warm hand on the small of her back, or hold her hand and lightly tickle her palm. When he left to replenish the ice, she waved him gently away, engrossed in the anecdote Louis was telling.

The guests left around midnight, and Mary went to bed shortly thereafter. The balcony slider was unlocked; Jack and Church could come back in whenever they liked.

***

Dr. Wilson, I’m sorry to bother you at work.

Mary? It’s no bother. You caught me at paperwork time, and I’d love to put it aside. How are you? How’s Jack?

Jack is… fine.

You hesitated.

I shouldn’t have. He’s fine. More than fine. He has a new friend.

This boy Church. Oh, listen to me. I always still think Jack’s a boy, so his friends must be too.

My mother says she always pictures each of us being ten.

Five. Or two. Those were good years. Of course, Jack’s been great at every age, but that was when – Never mind. You don’t want to hear me ramble; you called for something.

I shouldn’t bother you with it.

Mary, I want you to bother me with it. Please.

I want to ask your advice. This is very awkward.

Just take it slow. I’m happy to help whatever way I can.

Jack has mentioned that you were married before you became partners with his father. I mean, his other father.

Yes.

And… in talking with Jack’s Aunt Lisa, she said that you and Dr. House were very good friends during those marriages, and I got the impression – This is embarrassing; I’m sorry.

I’m not embarrassed. Everything you’ve said is true.

It seemed, from how things were described, that maybe it was difficult to split your time between your marriage and your friendship with Dr. House.

That’s one way to put it, certainly.

And your marriages didn’t survive.

Mm. You said you wanted advice?

What could they have done?

Excuse me?

Your wives, what could they have done to keep the marriage going? What would you have wanted them to do? How would you have wanted them to act?

Mary, what’s going on?

Church is a good person; I like him. Mostly. Jack has a lot of fun with him, and I want Jack to have friends, I really do. He shouldn’t have to be with me every minute of the day. It’s just there’s the writing, and his job, and now all the time with Church, and I don’t get to see him much. And more than that, I feel like I’m not where I used to be in his priorities. I don’t have to come first every single time, in every single circumstance, but I’d like to feel that he at least thinks of me, you know?

Mary.

I love Jack, and I don’t want to be a nagging shrew.

I can’t imagine you ever being like that.

But –

Wait. Listen to me. Yes, my first marriages ended in divorce. And, yes, some of that had to do with my friendship with House. But your relationship with Jack is much different than the ones that I had with my wives. I had reasons for being with them that had nothing to do with them at all. Nothing they could’ve done would’ve saved the relationships, because they weren’t built on the right foundation. Jack, on the other hand, loves you and wants to be with you. I don’t know if you’ll be together forever, but at this moment your relationship’s a good one, solid from everything I know, and I think you should trust it.

I do. It’s just that everything seems to be about Church lately, and I’m not getting much of Jack’s time, and I get frustrated. But then I think I don’t want to be one of those clingy women who has to have her man with her every second. I don’t want to be demanding; not everything’s about me.

I said you should trust the relationship, not let him walk all over you. It’s not good in general, and believe me, with anyone with House genes, it’s particularly ineffective. Decide what you need out of your relationship with Jack, and insist on it. That’s not being overly demanding; it’s standing up for yourself and your own needs. He’ll respect you for it.

And if he doesn’t choose me?

I can’t see that being the case. But if it is… at least you’ll know, and you can move on. I love my son, Mary, and I’d do anything to make him happy – anything but let him trample over the feelings of someone who doesn’t deserve it.

***

Jack sat on the couch, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling, and sighed. “Mary,” he called, although he could predict her reply with almost one hundred percent certainty.

“Just a minute.”

It had been just a minute for over two hours, ever since he’d walked in the door from work. First there were emails from her job, then a phone call from her sister, and now ironing.

“Mary,” he called again, dragging it out to three syllables. “At least let me help you so you’ll be done faster.”

“You’re terrible at this,” she replied from the other room. “You scorch everything you don’t wrinkle. Why don’t you do the dishes and get those out of the way?”

“They’re done; they’ve been done. If you’re too busy, just tell me now, and I’ll – do something else.”

She walked through the living room, arms full, and said eagerly, “No, I want to; I just need –”

“A minute, I got that.” He stared back at the ceiling, utterly frustrated, and then realized her footsteps had stopped. He pivoted his head, and she was in the doorway of their bedroom, looking back at him.

She was in lime green leggings and a very old off-white t-shirt, hair tied back sloppily and face already wiped clean of all makeup. Her toenail polish was chipped, and there was stubble on her lower calves. Smiling slyly over the huge pile of laundry in her arms, she rocked her hips in a little taunting move that always presaged good things, and the ache of Jack’s desire for her lodged so deep that he could hardly breathe.

He was off the couch in seconds, in their bedroom, trying to wrap his arms around her as she put the clothes into the dresser. “Just a minute,” she said again, in a slow, deep tone, and he groaned.

“Don’t tease me, Mary.” He kissed the back of her neck and felt her start to relax into him. “It’s been a long day, and I want you so much.”

“Know what I want?” asked another voice, startling Jack and Mary both. “French toast.”

“Jesus, Church!” Jack let go of Mary and spun around to confront the lanky bastard currently leaning against the bedroom doorjamb.

“ _Jesus Church_.” The bastard chuckled. “That never gets old.”

“What are you doing here?” Jack demanded, clutching hard to Mary’s hand.

Church’s lazy grin widened and he replied, “I told you – I want French toast.”

Jack huffed in frustration and drew Mary closer to him, keeping his eyes on Church the entire time. “We’re in the middle of something here.”

The grin had morphed into a smirk. “Unless you’ve got a weird way of doing sex, you have too many clothes on to be ‘in the middle.’ What about whipping up a snack beforehand to build your strength?”

Sternly Jack replied, “No.”

Mary had been standing at Jack’s side, looking between the two of them. At Jack’s refusal, she turned and put her arms around him, nuzzling into his shoulder. Jack could feel his irritation subsiding in the warmth of her embrace, and he kissed the top of her head in thanks.

Church’s face twitched and he sighed resignedly, “OK.” After a beat, he continued, “Can I watch?”

“No.” The irritation flared again, and joined with Jack’s frustrated desire into a blaze of heat. He tightened his grasp on Mary and glared at Church. “Get the hell out.”

Mary kissed Jack’s shoulder briefly, and his chest, and then he felt a warm drag against his skin as she licked a long line up his neck to his jaw. As her tongue danced away, he looked down at her, surprised and aroused, and found she was smirking at Church.

Church’s eyes blazed speculatively as he crossed the room. Jack watched, spellbound, as Church leaned slowly down toward Mary’s upturned mouth, her lips still glistening with saliva.

In the next moment, Jack found himself almost snarling; he had pinned Church to the nearest wall, right hand around Church’s throat.

Church laughed. “Message received, buddy. No threesomes, got it.”

Surprised at his own reaction, Jack let go abruptly and stepped back. He’d moved without conscious thought, instinctively, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Church grabbed him and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. “OK, I’ll go.”

Jack was still shaking his head, bewildered, when Church called from the hall, “Shame, though. Both of you have such nice asses.”

Jack slammed the bedroom door shut.

In the morning, he was utterly unsurprised to find Church sleeping on his couch. Still, he felt compelled to ask, after he’d prodded Church awake and shoved him into one corner of the couch, “What are you doing here?”

Church yawned, and his morning breath was deadly. Jack waved the noxious cloud away.

“Told you. French toast.”

Jack settled back onto the couch and turned on the TV. “It’s Mary’s morning to cook, so you’ll have to wait for her to get up.”

Propping his feet on the coffee table, Church slouched into the corner of the couch and tugged the blanket he’d used the night before around his chest and shoulders. They watched in silence for a few minutes, and then Church began kicking Jack’s feet. “So. How was it?”

“How was what?” Jack asked, trying unsuccessfully to drag his eyes away from the sports recap.

“The nookie. I riled you up pretty good there; Mary must’ve been grateful.”

Jack refused to look at him, and decided to ignore the way Church was tracing a toe up and down Jack’s shin. “What Mary and I do is private, and absolutely none of your business.”

Church shifted suddenly, drawing his legs onto the couch and tucking his head into the crook of Jack’s neck. “She any good at blow jobs?”

“I’m not talking to you about that.”

A quick nudge to Jack’s cheek, and then Church whispered in Jack’s ear, “Bet I’m better.”

Jack leaned away just a few inches and flicked his gaze between Church’s mouth and eyes. “Know what I’m good at?” he whispered slowly, conscious of every movement of his lips. “What I’m really, really good at?”

“What?” Church breathed.

Tilting his head, in a move mirrored by Church, Jack opened his lips and replied, “Gay chicken. I’m great at it. Never lost one bout.”

Church pulled back completely and flopped into the couch. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Look at that – I won again.” Jack crossed his arms and looked down at Church in smug satisfaction.

“Nice,” Church replied, staring sulkily at the TV. “Make fun of the man hitting on you.”

“You weren’t hitting on me, you pussy; you were playing a stupid game. And now you’re pissed because I beat you at it.”

“I could’ve been hitting on you.”

“But you weren’t. You were hitting on Mary last night – and you’d better fucking never do that again – but that right here on the couch was clearly a gay chicken move.”

Church was slumped, arms crossed fiercely and a pout embedded on his face; he looked like an oversized petulant five-year-old. “Yeah, fine, it was. But I didn’t mean it to be. Why am I not attracted to you? It doesn’t make any sense at all. You’re a good-looking guy, reasonably interesting, and only a little bit moronic. I should be popping off to thoughts of you in the shower every morning and I’m not. What the fuck is up with that?”

“You’ve never been friends with someone you’re not attracted to? Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’ve been attracted to people I didn’t like, but I’ve never liked someone and then not been attracted to them. I don’t know what to do about it.”

Jack laughed. “What’s there to do? Just be my friend. You’ve been doing fine at that the past couple of months.”

Church turned to him with a look of pure frustration. “It’s just weird, Jack.”

Jack punched him in the arm and then looked at the television again. It was almost time for the weather. “Welcome to the end of the Kinsey scale, Church. Maybe you’re straighter than you think.”

“Bite your tongue.” Church looked past Jack and then extended a hand dramatically. “There’s my love! Darling, you are radiant.”

Glaring, less than half awake, Mary staggered past them toward the kitchen. “Did you start coffee?”

Damn, he’d forgotten. “We were talking and –”

“Coffee’s done,” Church called. “I set it on the timer last night.”

Mary walked back out from the kitchen, her hands curled around a steaming red mug. “Church, you’re a godsend.”

“So that means I get my French toast, right? It’s easy to make.” He perked up and looked at Mary with puppy-dog eyes. Jack stifled a laugh.

“If it’s easy to make, why didn’t you just make it for yourself at home?”

Jack watched Mary take a long swallow of her coffee; she always needed the caffeine to feel fully herself in the morning.

“Mom always says it tastes better when it’s made with love.”

Mary snorted. “Made with love? Then why do you want me to make it for you?”

“You wound me, Mary,” Church replied, one hand clutching his chest. “Wound me severely. It’ll take weeks to recover, and since I can’t be transported safely, I’ll have to recuperate all that time on your couch.”

“French toast, coming up.”

Jack shook his head, gave Church a hard shove to the shoulder just for good measure, and went to take a shower. When he came back, Church was sprawled in a kitchen chair keeping Mary company as she cooked.

“Jack says your last name is Bayith,” Mary was saying. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it before; it’s unusual.”

Church looked up at Jack before answering, “Yes, I’m very unique.”

“Gah!” Jack growled, on his way to the coffee pot. “I hate it when people say that phrase. Unique means one of a kind! It therefore cannot have quantity! You can have a varying number of traits that are unique, but the word itself can't be modified.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You were saying, Church?”

“Nothing. You know, I was thinking of my parents this morning, and how nice it is that they’re unconditionally proud of me.”

Jack could feel his teeth clenching, and he thumped his mug onto the table. “That’s another phrase that gets to me. I’m sure your parents love you unconditionally, Church, but they can’t really be unconditionally proud of you. ‘Unconditionally’ means in every circumstance, so what if you became a mass murderer? I don’t think they’d be proud of you then.”

Mary chastised him with a light “Jack”; she’d heard this argument before. Church, on the other hand was laughing, and Jack rolled his eyes as he realized why.

“Oh, you’re doing this on purpose?”

Wiping his eyes, Church replied, “Of course. I had a feeling you’d get all ranty about that kind of thing.”

“You fuckhead.” Jack shook his head, and tried to steal the first plate of French toast that Mary was currently placing on the table. She pulled it away from him and gave it to Church instead.

“Such language,” Church tut-tutted as he poured half the bottle of syrup over his plate. “I never. Well, I did, but it’s a long story and I’m not sure whether that part in the middle with the green goat was real or hallucination. Anyway, ‘fuckhead’ is such a gauche, archaic word. It’s more correct to use the preferred term, ‘people with fuckheadedness.’”

Mary rubbed Jack’s back as she put his plate in front of him. Bringing her own plate, she sat at the table between Jack and Church.

“Your parents hit you upside the head a lot when you were a kid, I’ll bet,” she said affectionately.

Church smiled. “You have no idea,” he said, and stuffed a huge chunk of French toast in his mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

"Anderson. Prescription ready for Anderson," Jack recited into the intercom. Things had picked up a bit at the pharmacy after summer ended, but it still wasn't what he would call busy. That was fine with him; he never liked feeling rushed anyway. He kept his head low, reading the latest materials from Pfizer.

"Hey, Mr. Drug Pusher. What's on the menu today? Any cool new benzodiazepines?"

He looked up, surprised to hear a familiar voice at an unfamiliar time. "You'll never know without a valid prescription. What are you doing here?"

Church hoisted the box in his arms above the level of the high counter to where Jack could see. "Pretending to re-stock gum. Ostomy supplies are what I think they are, aren't they?"

Shutting the Pfizer pamphlet, Jack folded his hands on top of it. "If I've parsed that sentence correctly, then yes. What –"

"Yeah, I thought Louis was that much of a douche bag, to assign me that after the gum. No way am I touching any of it." Church pulled a pack of gum from the box and carefully, minutely inspected it before placing it on the rack. He then reached back into the box with the speed of an arthritic ninety-year old.

Jack rolled his eyes. "The supplies are all in unopened boxes. No different from touching any other kind of box that comes into this store. Besides, your fathers are both doctors; I wouldn't think you'd be squeamish."

"A, I mentioned that once, briefly in passing, so it's freaky that you remembered. B, they're not proctologists – not professional ones, anyway, har har har."

Church's curls bounced and flopped as he fake-laughed; Jack waited him out, exasperated. Church had an extensive list of the lamest gay jokes ever and trotted them out entirely too often.

Finally even Church got bored with the joke. He began an inspection of the second pack of gum from the box and continued, "C, even if they were, that doesn't mean I'd have been exposed to all the tricks of the trade, and D, it certainly doesn't mean I'd be interested. And E, ostomy supplies are spectacularly gross. Even proctologists think so, except for the pervy ones that I never, ever want to meet."

"One of these days you're going to make it all the way up to Z in one of those tirades," Jack remarked, looking through the filled prescriptions that had not yet been picked up.

Church tapped the gum against the counter and replied gleefully, "That's the goal!"

Jack shook his head – although he had to admit he was amused – and leaned over to the intercom. "Anderson. Prescription ready for Anderson."

A harried looking woman with a screaming baby strapped to her chest rushed up to the counter. "You called Anderson?"

Feeling sympathetic – who knew how long the infant had been upset? – Jack smiled at her. "Yukiko Anderson?"

"No," she replied, dragging it out as if Jack was stupid. He felt a little embarrassed, but even though the woman didn't look Japanese, he hadn't wanted to presume that she wasn't. He glared at Church, who was quietly sniggering over by the Dentyne, and then looked back into the prescription pick-up tray.

Pulling out the only other packet labeled "Anderson," he asked, "Ruth Wyatt Anderson?"

"That's me," she said with a sigh of relief. The infant's cries, which had dipped in volume, suddenly escalated again, and the woman closed her eyes briefly. Jack pushed the packet toward her, and made a funny face for the baby, who ignored him completely and continued wailing.

As she was signing the prescription register, the woman tapped her earpiece. "Yeah? Oh, hi, Dad. Yes, that's him – who else would it be? Well, me, yes, OK, you got me there. I don't even think it's colic any more." She waved to Jack once, grabbed her prescription, and turned toward the front of the store. "I think he's simply a hellion like his grandfather."

The bawling faded as the woman made her way to the front and out the door. Smirking smugly. Church commented, "You know, I was a colicky baby, for months and months. Drove everyone crazy."

"Why am I not surprised?" Jack retorted. "And speaking of why, why are you working tonight instead of in class?"

Church shrugged and busied himself with realigning the Bubble Yum. "That class was boring, so I dropped it. I'm thinking about changing programs."

Jack could feel the tension building in his head and pinched the bridge of his nose to try to stave it off. "Again? From what you told me, that's like the fourth time."

"OK, Mom, don't get your panties in a bunch." Church huffed and turned his back; Jack had to stifle a sigh.

"Whatever," Jack told him. "No skin off my teeth. It's just that you'll never get a decent job and start making good money until you settle on something."

Church snatched up the box of gum and started stomping away. "If I wanted a lecture on my future, I'd call home. See ya, Drug Pusher."

Jack hated it when Church got like this. He pulled his hands from his hips and decided this would be a good time to catch up on paperwork.

***

It had been such a superb morning that Jack was dancing. Literally dancing. Around his living room, up, down, back and forth, swinging, swaying. He'd almost fallen over the couch twice, but eh, screw it, he'd received not one but two acceptance letters from publishers before ten a.m. and it was time to dance.

He'd dug out all his music files for the awesome old-time synth pop band Erasure (bringing back happy memories of his preschool self jumping around the room with Pop, yelling happily to Dad, who would wave at them from the couch) and had turned the stereo up to eleven.

" _I'm so in love with you_ ," Jack warbled, off-key and not caring. " _I'll be forever blue_." Halfway through a spin, he noticed Church had let himself into the apartment and was staring at him with something approaching concern.

Jack brought his arms down and danced closer. " _That you give me no reason why you make me work so hard_."

Hands cupped around his mouth, Church shouted, "You dance like a chick!"

Jack raised the remote and cut the volume by half, without ever losing the beat. "Thanks," he called, and swiveled his hips.

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Shut the fuck up and dance with me." Even Sullen Sourpants couldn't resist the lure of Erasure, and soon they were both moving around the room, catching each other's eyes from time to time and grinning. _Joy shared is joy doubled_ , Jack thought, or perhaps it was more of the friendly competitive spirit they shared, but he found himself dancing faster, harder. Fun, but exhausting, and after a few songs more he had to collapse on the couch.

Church flopped down next to him, smirking, and Jack lowered the volume on the stereo.

"Wow, Johnny Upright. I've never known a straight man who danced like that."

Jack smiled. "Have you ever known a straight man with two gay parents?"

 _Duh_ was written into Church's stare. "Yeah. Kinda my subculture, the whole gay parent thing."

"Oh, yeah." Embarrassed, Jack stared at his lap. "I always forget your dads were out."

"I always forget yours weren't," Church said, looking intently at him, trying to probe and pin him with a gaze. "Why was that?"

Awkward and uncomfortable, suddenly back to being a grade-schooler, Jack felt his good mood ebbing. "It's a long story," he muttered, and rose from the couch, intending to get a drink from the kitchen.

"I've got time," Church called. "And bring me a beer."

Rolling his eyes, Jack grabbed two cold cans from the refrigerator. He dropped one Coke into Church's lap as he passed, on his way to his bedroom. "I don't have time. Got to get ready for work."

Church snorted, presumably at being given a soda; Jack left him behind.

When he got out of the shower, Church was sprawled across Jack's bed, one hand curled around a bottle of Jack's best beer. Jack ignored him and started getting dressed.

"You've got forty-five minutes, and it's only a two-minute walk away," Church commented. "I think you can hold off on the belt and tie."

With his hand inches from the tie rack, Jack stopped. Church had a point. It would be easier to put them on right before he walked out the door.

Church shifted on the bed so that he was sitting with his back propped against the headboard. "What's the deal with the ties anyway? No one else wears them at the store. Asphyxiation kink?"

"No," Jack replied, shaking his head. He sat down next to Church, shoulder to shoulder, and stole his beer. "I like looking professional. When you take care with your appearance, it shows everyone you respect yourself. Gives people a visual clue that they should respect you too."

Rolling his eyes, Church yanked the beer out of Jack's hands. "Or a visual clue that you're a complete dork. Did you think up that theory on your own, or did your Dad impart it while powdering his nose over his vanity table?"

The thought of his Dad, in an old t-shirt, with a three-day growth of stubble, trying to squeeze his long legs under a tiny vanity table covered in lotion bottles and perfume spritzers made Jack laugh.

"All on my own," he replied. "It's important to think things through before you do them, to really understand why you're doing the things you are, so you can make sure you're moving forward on the right track."

Church's face contorted and he let out an open-mouthed gagging groan. "So typically you. Everything thought through to the nth degree, put in place, and kept there, unchanging."

"What do you mean?"

"Perfect example: picking your stupid boring pharmacy career when you were fifteen frigging years old," said Church, gesturing with the bottle. "How can you stand it, having everything plotted out and resolved?"

Jack sat up straighter and turned, hands on hips, to face Church. "What, just because I managed to think up a plan to get me what I wanted? I wanted to write and at the same time not starve, so I found an in-demand job that pays well. I'm not some anal freak about it."

Swallowing the last of the beer, Church shook his head. "I bet you were a goody two-shoes all your life. Just like Gallant in those stupid Goofus and Gallant comics. I wanted to punch that supercilious Gallant right in his stuck-up face."

Jack wasn't surprised by Church's accusation, but it still stung. "Ooh, 'supercilious!' Breaking out the ten-dollar words," he taunted.

"780 on the Verbal SAT, remember? I'm not stupid."

"Never for a minute imagined you were." Jack sat back against the headboard and crossed his arms, poking at a bump in the comforter with his toes. "OK, I did for a minute, when you were smoking that cigarette when I first met you. But after that, no. In your language, though, you do tend to be more 'man of the people.'"

"Fuck you, pussy, and quit talking about me," replied Church, shoving at Jack's side. "We were talking about you, Gallant No-Balls, and how you've never done anything interesting in your entire life."

Jack made a face and shoved back. "I grew up with two men as my parents."

"That's not doing something, that's being something. Doesn't count. Have you ever even been arrested?"

"No."

"Ever been expelled?"

"No."

Church rolled his eyes and poked Jack's leg with the empty beer bottle. "Ever been in any kind of trouble ever? Your fairy dads taking away your makeup kit for wearing the wrong shade of lipstick doesn't count."

Raising an eyebrow, Jack replied, "Do I need to remind you that your own parents are gay, and that I have photographic evidence of you in drag? Where is all this hostility toward transvestitism coming from?"

"I was just calling you a pussy. And, yes, that's vaguely misogynistic. Must be the lack of influence from actual women in my formative years. Answer the damn question."

"I got suspended from school once," Jack said promptly.

"Now we're talking." Church shifted so he was facing more toward Jack and drew up his right knee, throwing a long arm around it. "For what? Bomb threat? Explosion in the science lab? Got caught with two naked cheerleaders in the video lab?"

"Why do I think those are all things you got in trouble for?" Jack let his head fall back against the headboard and stared at the ceiling. "I was suspended for yelling at a teacher. God, she was such a harridan." He peeked at Church from the corner of his eye. "That means 'vicious hag.'"

"We established that I know the long words, OK? So, did you call her a cunt?"

"No!" he replied indignantly. "I didn't know that word."

"What were you, six?" Church scoffed.

"Five. It was my kindergarten teacher."

Church groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Anything else?"

Jack had to think about it. This interrogation was getting annoying. "In third grade, I cheated on a test."

"Did you get caught? Get a zero? Parents get called?"

"No. The teacher never found out. The kid I copied off of was not that great at the subject, though, so I ended up with a bad grade."

"And your parents freaked and beat you."

"They never beat me," Jack said, exasperated. He glared briefly at Church. "Moron. But actually my Pop just laughed off the bad grade. It was a weird time; that was right after Dad left us."

Church's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Your Dad left you?"

"I mentioned it to you before." Jack sighed and looked back at the ceiling. He never liked talking about this, not to anyone. "The night after my eighth birthday party, my Dad kind of flipped. He walked out while Pop and I were asleep." Jack shrugged. "He thought it'd be better for us if he moved out."

When Jack looked over, Church was staring into nothing, lost in thought. "Hate it when people presume like that," Church muttered. He let out a breath and then looked back at Jack. "So, cheating on a test is the worst thing you ever did?"

Jack thought for a moment and then shook his head. "No, I did something worse. Pop got remarried, to a woman named Elaine, who ended up getting sick with Lewy body dementia."

"What'd you do wrong? Are you the one who gave it to her?"

Jack rolled his eyes and knocked Church's shoulder. "Dumbass, shut up. Dad and I knew really early, even before the official diagnosis, what was going to happen, and I – I tried to talk Dad into taking Pop away from her, knowing she'd have to deal with her dementia alone."

"So you did it?" Church asked eagerly. "You got them back together?"

"No," Jack replied. "Pop and Dad weren't together again until she died."

"How far along did you get in your scheme? What exactly were the steps in your plot?"

Confused, Jack parroted back, "Plot?"

"Yeah, what did you do? Mail anonymous love letters? Anonymous gifts? Strange charges on the credit card, to make your dad think his wife was cheating on him?"

Jack shook his head. "It was my Pop who was married, and no, I didn't do that. I just tried to talk Dad into talking to Pop, and he refused, and then she got diagnosed and it was too late." He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead; the memories of that time were still fresh and painful.

"You are the most useless schemer ever," Church scoffed. "You didn't actually do anything to break up your father and stepmother?"

"No."

"So the worst thing you've ever done in your life is wish somebody harm?"

Jack threw his arms up in the air. How could Church not get this? "It was cruel and horrible of me!"

"Jesus, Jack, you're pathetic." Church shifted and rolled until he was lying on his back on the bed, knees bent. "I do worse things than that between getting out of bed in the morning and taking my first piss. How can you write about stuff when you've never actually done anything?"

That was below the belt, and Jack was furious. "I've done plenty! Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ, Church! You think you're so superior to me, just because you like to get in trouble? Because you drift with the tide, never taking any real responsibility? Because you're a rebel?"

"I take responsibility when it's meaningful to do so. But on top of that, I have experiences." Church gestured widely. "I'm in life, really in it, and I make things happen. You've got to explore, to push. Without that, there's no growth; mankind doesn't advance."

"You getting arrested advances mankind?" scoffed Jack. "That's rich."

"Don't change the subject. You're better than the teeming masses of mediocrity, so why aren't you making your mark? Why aren't you challenging the status quo?"

Feeling like he was going to scream, Jack pulled himself off the bed. "Why do you think you get to judge me?"

Church swiveled his head to watch Jack's pacing. "Why not? I call it like I see it. And I see you, in a lame-ass job, living a boring-ass life, and not letting most people get to know all of you."

"So? I'm happy, Church. My job pays well, and through it I get to help people. I have my writing, which is coming along well, and a great relationship with Mary, and friends. It's all fine; it's all worthy; it makes me happy."

"But you could do more. Your writing is excellent – you could be setting the world on fire. Why don't you? Why won't you?"

Why did Church have to push this? Agitated, Jack paced faster. A thousand different answers flitted through his mind until he finally decided on the truth. "It's not my place to."

The look on Church's face was priceless, but Jack refused to smile.

"What the hell does that mean?" Church asked.

"It means – I don't want to be noticed." Jack found himself gesturing downward with both hands, like he was trying to push something away. "I don't want to be the center of attention. I just want to live a useful, happy life, in peace."

Church was shaking his head before Jack even stopped talking. "That's bullshit."

"What?" Jack demanded angrily. Peace was bullshit? His goals – and his ideal life that he'd been working so steadily towards – were bullshit?

"You love getting attention. You should see your eyes when a group of people are all focused on you. Your eyes fucking sparkle, and I can't believe you just made me use that word."

"Fuck you." Jack was pacing again, around the room and back again. He'd never noticed how small this bedroom was.

"For what, complimenting you?" Up on his knees on the bed now, Church was trying to pin Jack again. "Why are you hiding? Why won't you let more people know about you?"

Jack whirled on him. "Because you don't talk about your family!"

"What?" Church's goggle of confusion could have been amusing, in other circumstances.

"That's the rule, Church. Handed down by Dad as gospel from day one of my life. You don't talk about your family; you don't talk about yourself; you don't draw attention, so that people don't ask questions."

Church fell back on his haunches as if he'd been shoved. Jack refused to look at his face, but the concern in his voice was unavoidable as he said, "Jack, that's totally fucked up."

"Go to hell," Jack responded, but the heat seemed to have drained out of him. He sat heavily on the end of the bed and stared at the wall. "You don't understand. Your parents were always out; you have no idea what it's like."

Now Church was up and walking around the room, gesturing broadly. "Don't tell me to go to hell; tell your parents to go to hell! That's a fucked-up rule, and there's no way they should've ever imposed it on you."

"You don't understand." He had no more capacity to fight; all he wanted to do was explain so that maybe Church would leave him alone. "It was there to protect me."

"Even if that's the case," Church replied, in a very doubtful tone, "you're an adult now. You don't have to adhere to the rule any more."

"I know. I've talked to you about this stuff, haven't I?"

"Barely." Church was agitated, fidgeting as he walked. "I didn't even know your father had remarried until today."

"I guess. The point is that I know, intellectually, that I don't have to keep quiet any more. Hell, my Dad even explicitly told me he'd rescinded the rule. But knowing it intellectually and being able truly to accept it are two different things."

Church shook his head. "How many times have I called bullshit in this conversation? Because I'm going to have to do it again. Put on your big boy underwear, Jack, and quit letting the detritus of your childhood closet control your life."

 _He's not getting it_ , Jack thought, suddenly tired. A thought popped in his head on how to explain, and he looked up right into Church's face.

"Piss your pants."

"Excuse me?" Church asked. It was clear he hadn't expected that response.

"Right now, standing there, piss in your pants," replied Jack. "I dare you."

Church fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. "Um, no."

"I'll give you a hundred dollars if you do it, and no one will ever know. I'll never mention it again; I'll never think about it again. Come on, a hundred bucks; piss your pants."

Church's hands were on his hips, in a move that seemed familiar even though Jack had never seen him do it. "No way."

Point proven, and Jack felt a small thrill of triumph. "You can't do it. You can't. Know why? Because it's an imperative, ingrained in you."

"What does this have to do with –"

"You were toilet-trained, like everyone else, to within an inch of your life. Now, even though you're an adult and can make the rational decision that a hundred dollars is worth two minutes of wetness in your underwear, you can't do it. It's ingrained." Jack watched realization cross Church's face before he finished, "You don't talk about your family."

They stared at each other for two long beats before Church replied, "OK, I get it, it goes deep. But wouldn't it be worth it, to try to root it out, so that you can –"

"I'm happy, Church." Jack pushed every ounce of determination into his voice and his expression, because it was crucial that Church understood this. "Maybe I'm not doing everything that could be possible, but my life is good, and worthwhile, and I like it."

When Church opened his mouth to protest again, Jack cut him off. "You said yourself that I hide from people. Don't make me hide from you."

Church nodded. "I don't really get it, but against my deeper instinct, I suppose I can try to let it go."

It was all Jack thought he could hope for from Church, and a lot more than he'd thought he'd get. He stood up, crossed the room, and pulled Church into a hug.

"Um," Church said. He was stiff under Jack's arms. "I don't like people touching me like this."

Jack nodded against the side of Church's neck. "Must be difficult when you're trying to have sex."

"Let's just say I'm extraordinarily creative. Could you release me now?"

Jack squeezed tighter once and then let go. He looked up into Church's face and caught the end of a grin.

"So, potty-training as analogy, huh?" Church popped him on the arm. "I'll be your toilet, Jack. You can always piss on me."

Rolling his eyes, Jack walked off to grab his tie. "You're an ass."

"No, I'm a toilet."

"No, you're an ass."

As Jack finished getting dressed, Church flopped back onto the bed. "You enjoy urinating on asses? Of all the kinks out there, I didn't think you'd be into water sports."

"Shut up, you doofus."

"Don't you mean Goofus? Get a move on, Gallant; you don't want to be late to work." Church's smirk was only slightly smaller than Jack's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruth Wyatt was originally the creation of in [A'changin'](http://anamatics.livejournal.com/25885.html) and [The Logic of a Child](http://anamatics.livejournal.com/26149.html).
> 
> Goofus and Gallant are characters who appear in the childrens magazine _Highlights_ : <http://www.highlightsteachers.com/teachers/images/content/pdf/NewGoofusandGallant.pdf>


	6. Chapter 6

Church's comforter smelled a lot cleaner than Jack would've imagined, if he'd ever thought about it before his nose was buried in the damn thing. Of course, it wasn't likely to stay so bouquet-fresh, given the sweat that Jack could feel trickling across his scalp and beginning to bead on his lower back.

His knees were beginning to ache as well, and no wonder with all the weight they were bearing. Getting his hands under him would help relieve some of the strain, but his arms were pinned above him. That left just Jack's head, knees, and toes in contact with the bed, able to bear any weight, and for a skinny man, Church was surprisingly heavy.

Jack felt the rough slide of Church's right calf against his own as Church shifted position and canted his hips for better leverage. Jack gritted his teeth, muscles straining, and pushed back, but he didn't get far. Church pressed his chest tighter against Jack's back and panted into his ear, "That's my boy. Doing so good for a first-timer."

Church's hot breath on his ear, on his neck, in his hairline was driving Jack just a little bit crazy. He rocked his hips and ass, trying to build better momentum, but was unsurprised to feel Church react, pin him harder.

This was not, in fact, Jack's first time, although it'd been a few years. Jack had let Church continue thinking that, not in the expectation of any gentler treatment – this was Church after all – but with the hope that it might give him the element of surprise at some point. So far, no luck, but Jack was biding his time, waiting for any opening.

Suddenly, Church reared back, opening up a few precious inches of space between them, and Jack scrambled to twist and find better purchase, but then Church was slamming into him again, forcing him deeper into the mattress and ever nearer to the precipice at the bed's edge.

Now trembling from the tension, Jack heard himself groan and less than a second later Church answered with a chuckle. A shaky one, though, very shaky, and Jack dared to let optimism roll through him. Church was trying to play it cool, but Jack could sense he wasn't as collected as he might wish.

They'd been at it for – a long time (Jack was normally pretty good at estimating time but Church was one hell of a distracting bastard). They'd started on the couch, during an annoyingly boring segment of television, and things had escalated quickly. At one point they'd been up against the wall, but in a particularly vigorous moment, Church had stumbled against the bed. Once they'd hit the mattress that was where they had stayed. Now Jack was getting tired, but he'd be damned if he'd show it. If Church wanted to go for another thirty minutes, an hour, whatever, Jack was going to be right there with him.

Another slam from Church, and Jack ground forward a few inches, his forehead sliding off the bed. He gasped and grunted, and then found it increasingly difficult to breathe. "Neck," he managed to wheeze. "Edge digging into my neck."

Hands sliding down from Jack's hair to his chest, Church wrapped Jack up tightly in his arms and then abruptly pulled him up. They were upright together for a second, and Jack caught a glimpse of the two of them in the dresser mirror. "We look so happy," he thought, and then Church was moving, turning them a few degrees away from the edge, and Jack felt a rush of cool wind as Church drove him into the mattress again. The groan that produced from him was embarrassing, and he pushed up and back into Church as hard as he could, wanting to force some similar noise out of the man.

"Little pony's trying to buck," Church laughed, but Jack could hear the fatigue. He realized in that instant that after Church had changed his grasp to pull Jack away from the edge, he hadn't changed it back. Jack had some freedom to move his arms. Before he could decide how to take advantage, however, Church was draped down over him again.

Mouth millimeters from Jack's ear, Church whispered, "Give it up. Give it up to me. You know you want to."

Jack closed his eyes and sighed. He was hot, sweaty, and almost breathless. Muscles he barely remembered having – it'd been far too long – were trembling and well on their way to sore. Church was everywhere, covering him, pressing into his legs, his butt, his back. And his knees were absolutely killing him. Giving in to Church would be the easiest thing to do.

Instead, Jack tilted his head toward Church's and let a smile curve his lips. "You give it up," he whispered, and was amused by the look on Church's face. Summoning all his strength, Jack planted his hands on the mattress and pushed up, arching his back, with the intention of flipping Church over.

He had the pleasure of hearing Church squawk, clearly caught off guard, and then laughed as Church's arms tightened around him. A second later, he had his face pressed firmly into the comforter again and it was Church's turn to laugh.

"Church?" asked a deep voice.

"Hey, Jer," Church replied. "This here's Jack. Say hi, Jack."

Jack tried to greet Jer properly – he'd been dying to meet him – but the comforter muffled all his words. He tried to pull his head up so he could at least see the man, but Church's forearm was preventing that.

Jack grunted as Church suddenly pushed forward over him. "Jer, you just got here! Where are you going?"

"Out."

A door slammed, and Church rolled off Jack and landed heavily on the bed on his back. “Fuck fucking fuck," he spat.

Jack immediately slid onto his side, facing Church, almost giddy at the relief for his aching knees. His mood was tempered, however, by Church's glower. "What?" he asked, trying, not entirely successfully, to mask his concern.

Church didn't seem to notice, closing his eyes and thumping his head twice against the mattress. "Jer's the jealous type."

"Jealous over wrestling?" Jack was honestly confused. He could understand where Church might inspire some jealousy – might go out of his way to inspire some jealousy – but over him? For just goofing around?

Church grunted and turned the _dumbass_ glare on him. "Pretty sure Jer thinks we were doing more than wrestling."

"Why would he think that? OK, the position might've looked a little funny, but we have our clothes on." Jack gestured between them, encompassing Church's obnoxiously ugly t-shirt and jeans, and his own outfit.

"Sex with as little disrobing as possible is sometimes a kink of mine – don't ask; you don't want to know – and he probably couldn't see your shorts." Church rolled away and rose from the bed. His face was carefully dispassionate, but the tightness in his neck and shoulders screamed his distress.

Jack couldn't help but feel sorry for his part in causing that grief, and directly before the big dinner for the four of them that night, too. _Great first impression on Church's boyfriend_ , he chided himself. Trying to be soothing, he replied, "But you can just explain it to him, and how I'm straight, and I'm sure he'll –"

"Yeah," Church snapped. He'd begun pacing, each stride slamming into the carpet. "Jer knows me, knows what I'm like, knows how I'm always attracted to people I like – and there aren't many of them. I have acquaintances, drinking buddies, hook-ups, affairs, but not too many friends." He stopped and shook his head. "He was already getting suspicious, just from how many stories I tell him about you."

The flattered feeling in Jack's chest distracted him for a minute. "You tell stories about me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I'm boring. You tell me that all the time."

Church snorted and then leaned back against the dresser. "I may have exaggerated that accusation for effect. Speaking of exaggeration, you said that one time, when we were talking about Bender's, that you were sure I had a ton of friends. Why?"

"Why wouldn't you?" Jack was starting to get some of his energy back, so he sat up and stretched. "You're intelligent; you're clever; you're interesting."

"I'm an asshole," Church countered, glaring. "Rude, abrasive, spawn of Satan."

Jack shrugged. "My dad, whom I both loved and admired, was worse than you."

Church's skepticism was amusing, but Jack held himself back from smiling. "You're joking," Church accused.

"No, I'm really, really not." Jack stretched again and climbed off the bed. Dad would've liked Church, he concluded. Maybe grudgingly, but he would have. It was a shame they'd never get to meet.

Contemplating, Church drummed his fingers against the dresser in an unusual cadence, making a pleasant low sound that was almost musical. "My dad's worse than me, too," he finally confessed.

Jack smirked. "Apple doesn't far fall from the tree."

"Are you sure you're a writer? Aren't you guys supposed to be against trite aphorisms?"

"Shut up," Jack countered pleasantly. He reached out and squeezed Church's arm briefly before returning to a Church-acceptable distance. "You OK now?"

"Yeah." Squaring his shoulders, Church pushed off the dresser and stood. "I've got to go get Jer and talk to him."

 _Oh, no._ "Bad idea, Church. You're an abrasive asshole, remember? I'll talk to him."

"Worse idea. If he wouldn't believe me, why would he believe you?"

Jack had to concede the point. If he'd found Mary in bed with her arms around another man – Testosterone surged and his heart sped up. The theoretical guy would be lucky to make it away from him with only bruises.

"True," he told Church. "To talk to Jer, we need someone who's completely trustworthy."

They thought for a moment, and then inspiration struck. In the same instant, they looked at each other and both declared, "Mary."

Church pushed Jack toward the doorway. "I'll call her while you're in the shower," he said. "You stink, Sweaty."

Jack smiled. Mary was the perfect choice; she'd have Jer straightened out (no pun intended) and feeling good in plenty of time for their dinner tonight. Plus, Jack was ready to gloat, and with good reason. "It's the heady stench of victory."

"What are you yammering about?" Church asked, annoyed. He was already reaching for his cell phone.

"Our wrestling bout," Jack informed him while walking away. "I won."

Church chased after him, following him into the bathroom. "You did not! I had you pinned."

"But I never gave up." Jack stripped off his shirt and stepped out of his shorts; he did feel slightly sticky and gross, not appropriate at all for the restaurant they were going to tonight. He leaned in and turned on the shower, and then gestured for Church to turn around. "Unlike some people I can name, who just up and rolled over when the pressure got to be too much."

Even with his back to Jack, Church could still make his disapproval known. "You mean when my boyfriend walked out on me because he thought I was banging you?"

"Yep." As Church turned around again, Jack leaned out around the shower curtain and plastered on his biggest smirk, digging the knife in deep. "I win."

"I concede nothing," Church protested, but his face gave the game away. Triumph for Jack. "Take your shower, fucker. I'm tired of smelling you."

Jack slapped the curtain shut and leaned into the spray. He loved a good shower, loved the heat, the aroma of the soap and shampoo, the wonderful feeling of rinsing all the grime away.

He was almost done when Church stepped back into the bathroom. "Got a hold of Mary; she's going to come by and then we'll track down Jer together."

"Sounds good."

Jack was scrubbing his ears when Church said, "Really think Mary'll suck his dick?"

"What?" Jack bellowed, and stuck his head out of the shower.

Church smirked. "Are you deaf? I said, do you really think Mary'll do the trick?"

"Oh," Jack sighed, instantly relieved. He closed the curtain again and began to rinse off as quickly as possible. "I thought you said Mary was going to suck Jer's dick!" he shouted above the spray.

Church scoffed loudly, and Jack smiled. He shut off the water just as Church shouted, "You never know, though! Maybe she wants to see what the unsliced salami's like."

Jack rolled his eyes behind the curtain, and then stuck his hand out, gesturing impatiently for a towel. "Lack of foreskin has never been an impediment," he retorted.

Arms crossed, Church was steadfastly refusing to hand over a towel. "Mary's a very polite person. Maybe she just never told you that you're less of a man than she needs. Girls go nutty for that extra bit of flesh."

"Don't you mean boys? With Jer being gay, he wouldn't have firsthand knowledge of what girls like."

"True, but I do."

Jack stopped cold, his hand inches from the towel. "Wait a minute. You're not claiming you're uncircumcised?"

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"The epic story of the five-hour bar mitzvah party." Jack pushed back the shower curtain and leveled a finger right at Church, who was looking infuriatingly smug. "You are a lying liar who lies."

"I'm not!" Church protested. After Jack shot him a skeptical look, he relented, "Well, in general, yes, but not in this particular circumstance."

This blatant lie could not be allowed to stand. "Evidence required," Jack intoned, robot-like, as he stepped out of the shower, inches away from Church.

"Hey!" Church objected, but he was backed into the sink; there was nowhere for him to go.

Jack reached for Church's waistband with a smirk. Catching Church out in this lie would mean victory number two for Jack today, something unprecedented in the history of their friendship. Church's attempts to fend him off were hampered by the tightness of space in this corner of the bathroom; he easily caught up Church's wrists in his right hand.

With his left index finger, he snagged the waist of Church's jeans right over his fly, and managed to catch the elastic of his underwear as well. He was leaning over to peek and laughing off Church's indignant squawks when a loud "ahem" sounded behind him.

He whipped his head around and there was Mary. Wow, two horribly wrong impressions in one day; could it get any worse? He opened his mouth to say something, to explain, but nothing came out.

Church had fallen silent as well, so Mary's voice echoed loudly in the room. "What exactly is my very naked fiancé doing looking down another man's pants?"

Jack stammered and stuttered for a few seconds and then abruptly realized he still had two hands on Church. He let go, pulled back, and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist. "Let me –"

To his surprise, Mary started laughing. "No," she said, "please don't explain. It's better if I don't know. This does point out, however, how reasonable Jer's assumption seemed."

"Mary," Jack entreated, as Church started sniggering. Throwing him a glare over his shoulder, Jack moved toward his fiancée. "We were just goofing off."

She smiled broadly and planted a quick kiss on his lips. "I know. You two are like puppies, tussling and tumbling and sniffing each other's butts. I don't mean it literally, Church, so get that idea out of your head."

Jack could feel the smirk on Church's face even without looking.

"Now you get dressed," Mary said, pushing Jack out of the bathroom. "I brought you some nice clothes; they're on Church's bed. Church and I are going to find Jer, and I will attempt to explain to him the deranged lunacy that is your friendship. If he's a halfway sane man, he won't believe a word of it, but I'll do my best."

He was filled with affection for the wonderful woman he'd somehow been lucky enough to find. "I love you, Mary."

"Everybody does," Church commented, and escorted her out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Mary, Jer, and Church made it to the restaurant only a few minutes late, and by the time the appetizers were served, Jer had relaxed back into his chair and was smiling and nodding to Mary's anecdotes about her work.

Jack leaned slightly toward Church and spoke behind his hand. "What did she say to him?"

"Don't know. They made me stay in the car." Church popped a shrimp in his mouth and then grumbled, "But with all the gushing Jer's doing over her, I'm starting to get jealous myself."

Stifling a smile, Jack reached for the bread. For anyone else, Jer's demeanor with Mary would be considered barely above cordially polite. Based on everything he'd heard, though, for Jer it was effusive – and probably done on purpose to get Church's goat.

"OK, OK, OK," Church declared, clapping his hands to get their attention. "We are here tonight to celebrate the engagement of two very special people. And by special, I mean short-bus special-needs special."

"Hey," Jer grumbled warningly, but Mary placed a hand on his arm, forestalling him.

"Now, Church," she said, "it's been obvious since day one that your hatred for Jack knows no bounds, but me? I thought we had a good thing going."

Church stretched across the table, narrowly missing the candle, and took Mary's other hand. "You, my dear, have always enchanted me with your loveliness and charm. But you dealt me a cruel blow by accepting a ring from this twit, and I have been forced to reconsider."

He pulled back grandly and reached into his pocket with a flourish, as the other three looked on in various stages of amusement and bemusement. "Nonetheless," he continued, pulling out a piece of paper, "marriage is a blessed institution, or so I was informed by my disgustingly committed parents on their twenty-fifth anniversary. Therefore, I have written for you, my sweet, a poem."

"A poem?" Jack asked, flabbergasted. He looked to Jer, who shrugged, looking puzzled as well.

Beaming, Mary took the paper and unfolded it. "Church, you are a darling, and I'm flattered beyond – oh." She gave the smirking man across from her a long look, but pulled the sheet closer to her chest when Jack tried to sneak a look.

"I shall recite," she said, and drew herself up regally. Jack was vaguely confused; Church, still smirking smugly, leaned slightly in towards Jer, who sighed.

Mary held their gazes for a brief moment and then began speaking.

>   
> 
> 
> Some roses are red;
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Violets aren't always blue.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> You must be knocked up,
> 
>   
> 
> 
> So when are you due?
> 
>   
> 

Jack wasn't even surprised, but he covered his face with a hand anyway.

"What?" Church asked mock-defensively, and even with eyes closed, Jack could feel the looks Jer and Mary were giving him. "It's not like there's anything to be ashamed of. Plenty of couples find themselves forced to marry when a bun unexpectedly shows up in the oven."

"Like your parents," Jer noted.

"Exactly," Church replied. "And they're still going strong. Nothing to be ashamed of at all."

Jack shook his head in confusion. "Wait a minute. So you were unplanned?"

Church looked almost offended. "Oh, no, I was most definitely planned."

"Just unwanted," Jer noted, and Church glared at him.

"Aren't you verbose tonight? You don't have to say every damn thing that comes into your mind, you know. Yes, that is most definitely an insult, but take it slow trying to cogitate through exactly what it means. I hate it when the smell of burning metal wafts from your ears." Scowling, he turned emphatically away from Jer and toward Mary and Jack. "Anyway, I was saying that I was very much planned. During the pregnancy, my dear biological mother rightly concluded that she wasn't the right woman for the job, and Mom stepped in, dragging Dad along to take full responsibility for what his genes had wrought. It all turned out fine and well, and I wish the same for the two of you and your as yet nameless sprog. If you want the ultimate in timeless sophistication, I'd suggest Christian."

"Jer's like Jack and Mary put together," Jer noted, causing Church to begin to sputter.

Jack chuckled, earning Church's scorn, and Mary leaned over to pat Jer's arm. "It's a lovely name, and I'll definitely keep it in mind. However, not yet, because I'm not pregnant."

"Seriously?" Church queried, and turned to Jack. "You're going to voluntarily marry someone you met at age twenty?"

Smiling, Jack reached over and hugged Mary. "Given that it's me, does that really surprise you at this point?" he asked.

"I suppose not," Church said, and they were interrupted by the arrival of the entrees. Then there was eating, and general chit-chat, and somehow the conversation came back around to pregnancy and birth. Jack found out that Church's parents also had kept video of him being born, and that it was every bit as graphic and un-amusing as the tape of Jack's birth. Church was several sentences into describing explicit details of his crowning when Mary interrupted.

"I think this may be making Jer uncomfortable. Let's change the subject. I know; we can talk about colors for the wedding."

All three men looked at her with abject horror. "I'd rather hear about vaginas," Jer mumbled.

An amused smirk crept onto Mary's face. "Priceless. Of course I don't mean it."

The relief was palpable, and then all four of them were laughing together.

"I do have a lot of planning to do, though," Mary sighed.

"Know who you could talk to?" Jer asked.

Church and Jack opened their mouths in the same millisecond. "Mom." "Pop."

Mary smiled at them as Jer shook his head. "Cassie," he clarified. "Our wedding planner friend."

"Ah, Cassandra the Fair," said Church. "She'd be perfect."

Church told a few amusing tales about Cassie's clientele, Mary related some bridesmaid horror stories, they ate dessert, and soon the evening was winding down.

Just as Jack was about to call it a night, Jer slid an envelope across the table to him. He looked at Jer quizzically; Jer nodded, as if he'd made up his mind after long deliberation.

The envelope was a smooth cream color, and heavier than typical in Jack's hands.

"Not a poem," Jer reassured him with a small smile on his face. Church had pulled his chair closer to Jer and was resting a hand on Jer's thigh; he looked, oddly enough for him, content.

With Mary's head tucked onto his shoulder, Jack opened the envelope and pulled out a plain cream-colored card. His heart swelling, he read out loud the words Jer had written in clear, bold script: "It's said that we only grow through adversity, tribulation, and pain. May you never be any bigger than you are at this moment."

What a gift it was, Jack thought, to have such remarkable people in his life. All he could do was say, "Thank you," and hope they heard the deep gratitude behind the simple words.

***

Standing behind the counter at the pharmacy, Jack looked down aisle seven fondly. He was doing his best to remain composed and professional for the remaining eight minutes of his shift, but it was difficult when his Pop was standing right there, waiting for him.

Church wandered by, and Jack leaned over the counter and grabbed him. "Guess who's finally come to town?"

"The Great Pumpkin?"

"No," Jack replied briskly. "My father. He's right over there browsing the aisle; look."

Church stared for a long beat and then asked, "Wow, who'd your dad eat?"

"He's my Pop. And if you tease him about his weight, I will kick your ass," Jack growled. "He's been depressed since Dad died, and last year he got dangerously thin. So overweight is fine."

"Overweight? If his beard and hair were white instead of silver, he'd look just like Santa Claus."

"Stop," Jack warned. "Seriously."

"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it," Church said, holding his hands up in surrender. "In fact, there's a sizable portion of the gay community that likes fat and hairy. Bet your father's getting more poon than he can handle."

Jack rolled his eyes. "If you're going to use obsolete slang, you could at least use it properly. 'Poon' means female genitalia."

Leaning lazily back against the counter, Church replied, "Didn't you say your dad's bi? So he'd be happy getting female genitalia."

"Yes, but it doesn't follow logically from what you were saying before. You said that certain gays would like my Pop. Getting poon would thus mean he's having sex with gay women."

"Which would be hot."

Jack shrugged and said, "Yeah, I guess so."

Church's expression immediately turned smug. "You're imagining your dad having sex!" he gloated.

"No, I'm not! Asshole."

Church smirked and made a show of wiping his hands. "My work here is done."

"Chris! Stocking!" called the out-of-sight night manager.

"Dilweed wants someone to lick his stockings," Church muttered, but he started walking toward the stock room.

"Come back and I'll introduce you," Jack called. He ignored the one-fingered wave Church shot him, dismissing it as pure irritation at being ordered around, and switched his work coat for his fall jacket. Business was slow, and he was eager to spend time with his Pop. A few minutes out from the counter and on the floor would be fine.

He caught Pop's eye as he stepped out from the back. His stride might've been a little fast, but Pop never commented, only caught him up in a warm, familiar hug. "Missed you, sweetheart," sighed Pop, and Jack had to smile.

"I missed you, too." Jack let go but stayed close. "I want you to see our apartment, and Mary, before you have to go to the hotel, but let's stay here a few more minutes so you can meet Church."

"As long as we're together, I don't mind where it is. Wish I could spend the whole evening with you and Mary instead of having to go – I tried to get them to move the rehearsal for my presentation to tomorrow morning instead of tonight, but it just wasn't possible. With a conference like this, they have a lot of moving parts to organize."

"No problem at all. And I took tomorrow off, so after your presentation is done, we'll have plenty of time."

They had drifted as they talked and were now standing by the end-of-aisle display. As Jack chatted with Pop, he heard Louis assisting a customer in the next aisle over. "They're down there, sir," Louis said tightly.

"What kind of moron drugstore stocks knee bandages on the bottom shelf? Nobody considered the fact that knee problems might limit a person's ability to, say, bend down?" Ignoring Louis's mumble, the customer demanded, "Are you going to get me one or what?"

Jack felt a cold shock spreading through him at that familiar voice. He didn't dare to look around, seeking out his Pop's eyes instead. Every bit as stunned as Jack was, Pop whispered, "It's not him."

"I know; it can't be him," replied Jack, even as his heart begged for the miracle.

He heard Louis say, "Here you go," and then the man laughed.

"The cliché is not knowing your ass from your elbow; usually people can distinguish knee and elbow. Try again."

Emotions were running through Jack in quick succession – shock, hope, disbelief, excitement, fear, love – and he was starting to shake. "It's not him," Pop repeated, voice strong but eyes pained, as he took hold of Jack's hand and squeezed reassuringly. "It can't be."

"Let me just look," Jack said, taking a big step back but keeping Pop's hand in his.

Pop tightened his grip and began to plead with his eyes. Jack was past the edge of the display; if he turned his head to the right, he'd be able to see the man with the voice of his Dad, but Pop had locked his gaze.

"Don't, Jack," Pop begged. "You don't need the disappointment, believe me –"

He wanted to listen to Pop's wisdom, he did, but the lure was too strong. A subtle shift of his head, a further turn of his eyes, and suddenly his heart caught in his throat. Joy suffused him, and he couldn't help grinning as he reported to Pop, "Sure looks like him."

"It can't be," Pop repeated, jaw clenched. He was getting angry, but his tune would change when he saw, Jack knew it. Jack pulled him forward, turned him forcefully toward the lanky, scruffy six-foot-two genius they'd both missed so much.

Pop staggered and then froze. "House?" he called in disbelief.

"Yeah, what?" the man snapped, turning toward them, and Jack started to laugh. His Dad was here, in a shabby little pharmacy in Nowhere, New York. Pop had been wrong, oh so wrong, and the coroner's report was obviously falsified. That fake body in the morgue had been a damn good simulation, all the details of Dad's appearance captured, and very life-like, or rather human-albeit-dead-like. Jack had fallen for it all, and Dad was going to give him so much shit for it, but he didn't care. Not now that Dad was here.

Bent over with laughter, he felt a hand clap him hard on the back. "What's so funny?" Church asked, leaning over and looking into his face.

"You know this guy?" asked Dad, and the joy surged even higher, pushing Jack into even louder guffaws. Church was going to get to meet his Dad. What could be better?

"Jack?" Pop asked, one strong hand on Jack's neck. Jack was confused at Pop's tone; he should've sounded excited, gleeful, but instead he sounded concerned. Nothing to be concerned about; Dad was back with them, where he belonged.

As he gasped for breath in between chuckles, Church tugged him upright. Dad was there, an appraising cast to his eyes. He looked really good, though. Healthy, fit, a few more wrinkles that only added more character, standing tall and proud. _Something off about his stance_ , Jack thought and then realized Dad wasn't leaning on his cane as much as normal. An interesting detail, but one that was swept away at Dad's next words.

"Your friend's going into shock. Got any place we can have him sit down?"

Jack looked over at Church, alarmed. Church in shock? What for? He checked Church out quickly, but didn't notice any of the typical signs. The concern on Church's face was abnormal, for Church, but other than that… For Dad to mess up a simple diagnosis like that was weird, and Jack looked to Pop for confirmation.

Pop was smiling – finally, he was responding to Dad being back. Not really the right kind of smile, more gentle and reassuring than joyful and relieved, but still, smiling. "It's OK, Jack," Pop said, and that started the laughter back up again, because in the history of understatements, that was the understatedest ever. Which was probably not a word, but whatever.

There were hands on Jack, holding him up, and his feet were moving. He tried to look at them – his three favorite men, the men he loved, together in the same room – but everything was starting to blur, and it occurred to him, as he was plopped into a chair, and his head was shoved between his knees, that passing out at your place of employment was highly, highly unprofessional.

He looked toward Church – Pop was seated next to Jack, his hand warm and gentle on Jack's neck again – to see if he had ever done it, because Church reveled in the unprofessional, and was surprised to see him standing that close to Dad.

No matter. "It's so good to see you," Jack said to Dad, smiling, waiting for him to smile back. He could feel his heart rate slowing down; funny that he hadn't noticed it beating fast to begin with.

"Church?" Dad asked out of the side of his mouth, lips barely moving.

Church shook his head. "I dunno."

They were talking to each other. Why were they talking to each other? It could only mean one thing. "You've met!" Jack cried happily.

"Uh, yeah, Jack," Church replied, rolling his eyes. "He's my Dad."

Jack was instantly angry – Church lied from time to time, but never over something so important. "He's not your Dad!" Jack protested, and Pop's arms tightened around him.

"Since birth," Church replied, as if it was the most natural thing instead of a mean, horrible lie. "Or conception. Depends on how you count. What the fuck's up with you, Jack?"

"Jack," Pop said sadly, gently tugging on Jack's chin until their eyes met. "That's not him. Sounds like him, looks like him – looks a hell of a lot like him – but it's not him. It can't be, sweetheart, because your Dad died."

"But it is him!" insisted Jack. Pop had to see sense. "You called him House and he responded."

"Well," Pop began, but he was interrupted.

"Of course I responded; that's my name."

Pop's eyes grew wider, and something that might've been hope flashed in them as he turned. "Really? Jack's Dad, who as you've realized looked amazingly like you, was a House, too. You must be a relative we never knew about; that's so incredible. Jack, isn't that incredible?"

A relative. A cousin, or an illegitimate brother, or something. That made sense, much more reasonable than a faked death, but Jack couldn't buy it. Couldn't, wouldn't, couldn't. He felt a tickle at the back of his throat and a warmth in his eyes but ignored them, watching dumbly as Pop rose from his chair.

"Where are my manners? We should do introductions," Pop said, extending his hand. "As you've no doubt guessed, I'm Jack's Pop, James Wilson."

Eyes widened, Church and Dad (Cousin House or Uncle House or whoever, and even the realization that that probably meant Jack and Church were cousins wasn't enough to ease the ache) exchanged looks. "That's weird," Church said.

"James is a fairly popular name, as is Wilson," House replied before finally shaking Pop's hand. "Interesting coincidences today; you share the name of Church's other father. I'm Greg House." He tried to pull his hand away, but Pop clung to it tightly.

Pop's eyes flicked from Church to Jack and back to House. "That's eerie," he said, and then leaned closer, searching House's face. "House?" he whispered, and Jack's chest felt tight.

Confusion grew on House's face as he peered intently at Pop. "Jimmy?" he asked, a note of recognition in his voice.

Jack was gasping for air in his overwhelming delight when Church exploded. "That's not Jimmy!"

"Shut the fuck up, Church," Dad said, guiding a shocked-looking Pop to the nearest chair.

"Am I dead?" Pop asked. "I would've assumed heaven had better carpeting."

"You're not dead," Dad scoffed. "You've got a pulse, haven't you?"

"Well, that's hardly conclusive evidence. Even on a purely spiritual plane, we might still experience ourselves as corporeal –"

"Shut up!" Church yelled. "You can't do that; you're not my Mom!" Jack blinked, and Church was rushing toward him, shoving him, nearly knocking him out of his chair. "Get your Pop away from my Dad!"

It was all too much, everything, overflowing into fury, pure and clean. Close enough to kiss, he shouted, "Fuck you, Church! Don't I give you enough, you have to take this too? I lost my Dad twice and you want to tear him away a third time!"

"Whoa," House said, thrusting an arm between them, pushing until there was enough space between them to breathe. Church looked ready to spit, and Jack could feel the snarl on his own face. "When I imagined handsome young men fighting over me, it was not to establish paternal lineage." He nudged each of them again. "Neutral corners. Now."

Church retreated to the far side of the break room, kicking the fridge as he passed. House followed and spoke quietly to him; Jack tried to push away the pang he felt when House's hand dropped onto Church's shoulder.

Pop was by Jack's side now, rubbing his back. "We'll figure it out, Jack. It's going to be fine."

"I just don't understand it at all." If Jack's tone was almost a wail, he knew Pop would forgive him.

"Neither do I. But if he's anything at all like the Greg House we knew, then we've got the best possible mind to help us puzzle it through, right?"

Jack sank into Pop's warm eyes like into a mattress stuffed with feathers. This was crazy, utterly insane, but at least Pop was here to steady him.

"OK," House said, striding back to the middle of the room. Jack marveled at how strong his gait was; the cane was almost an accessory. "Everyone under the age of thirty, out."

Jack's head snapped up, and he and Church protested at exactly the same time, "What?"

"Wilson and I are going to talk this over, so you two get lost." House aimed a thumb at the door as Pop nodded. "We'll find you when we're done."

Fists on hips, Church interjected, "He's not –"

"Yes, yes, World-Revolves-Around-Him. Mister Wilson and I; does that make you feel better? Get out. And don't kill each other."

A shove and a clang, and Jack found himself on the other side of the steel break room door with Church. Louis spotted them and came stomping over, but either Church's glare or Jack's serious head shake warned him off, and he abruptly changed direction toward the front registers.

Jack tilted his head toward the back door of the store, and Church nodded his agreement.

"Well, now I know that's not Mom," Church said as they walked, "because my parents never kick me out of the room so they can argue."

"Arguments, sure. They ever say anything important around you?" Jack looked Church in the eye and was relieved to discover that the anger he'd felt earlier had dissipated. This was Church, the best friend he'd ever had, and no amount of insanity should ever negate that fact.

"No," Church admitted. "You?"

"No." Jack pushed open the heavy black door to the back alley. It wasn't pretty, the dim yellow lights hardly illuminated a thing, and it kind of smelled, but at least it was private.

"Then again, your parents weren't together for most of your life, so…"

What an inane thing to say. Jack threw a disapproving glare Church's way. "They were still both my parents. They had me to discuss."

"Self-centered much?" Church replied through clenched lips as he lit a cigarette.

Disapproving to exasperated was a short, easy slide. "Thank you, Mr. Pot, sir; may I have another?"

"Fraternity hazing paddle fantasies, mmm. No, you may not, Johnny Upright, but you can have this." Church passed the cigarette over and started lighting another one.

Jack rolled the cigarette back and forth between his thumb and index finger. "Sorry for yelling back there."

Church snorted, which blew the lighter flame out. He glared at the lighter; Jack laughed and snatched it away, swiftly lighting Church's cigarette and dropping the lighter into his own pocket. Church took a drag and then replied, "I'm not. Nobody fucks with my family. Not even you."

"I'm not fucking with your family, Church. I just… miss my Dad. I didn't get enough time with him."

"Because your dads split up."

"No, that's not it. Dad only moved a few miles away; I lived with him on weekends and saw him just about whenever I wanted. By more time, I mean more years. I have things to go through, events in my life to come, for which I'd so much like to have him there."

With the alley's lighting, the smoke rings from Church's mouth were an odd color. Jack had tried over the past few months but never mastered the feat, so he simply watched as the rings floated into the darkness.

"You said in the break room," Church said quietly, his head tilted toward the ground, one foot scuffing the blacktop, "that you didn't want to lose your dad a third time. I don't want to lose mine even once. I don't want to lose anyone in my family."

Standard comforting words came quickly to Jack's tongue and began leaping off before he could stop them. "Church, I –"

"Mom had brain tumors."

Feeling like he'd been slapped, Jack stammered, "What?"

"A couple of years ago. Operable; they got everything. But I'd had this feeling that he wouldn't make it, and it tore me up. Then in the middle of it all, before Jimmy was even out of the hospital, this ex-girlfriend of House's came around with a gleam in her eye. I shut that shit down fast, but it still rankles." Church lifted his head then, and his face was as solemn as Jack had ever seen it. "That's my mother, and House's Jimmy, and there's no substitution."

"Yeah," Jack replied, nodding. He stubbed out his cigarette and held his hand out for another. When Church passed the pack, Jack let his hand slide across the back of Church's before taking the cigarettes, let his thumb stroke down Church's fingers before pulling away completely. Church turned his head away, and Jack knew that Church had understood.

After zipping up his jacket – even in the protection of the alley, the autumn air was chilly – Jack lit them both a new cigarette. As he passed Church's over, he asked, "Why do you always call him Mom?"

"Because he's my mother."

"Not technically. Technically, he's your father."

The _dumbass_ glare was just as effective while blowing out a stream of smoke. "Since I can remember, every book Jimmy read to me, every show and movie I saw, that had a mother and kid in it – _Dumbo_ , _Bambi_ , _Penny in Pigtails_ – that was Jimmy and me. People would say to me, 'That's your mother,' and point to the woman who gave birth to me, and it didn't match, didn't make a damn bit of sense. Jimmy and me,  that made sense. He's my Mom."

Jack nodded. "Guess it's something like the way that even though I never had a brother, I know exactly how it feels."

They locked eyes for a moment, and Jack sent up a silent word of gratitude to the universe.

Then the right side of Church's lips quirked up. "You're really pumping out the estrogen tonight, Gallant No Balls."

"Uh huh." Jack raised an eyebrow. "I'm not the one boo-hooing over a family member who didn't even die, and empathizing with a lonely outsider pachyderm."

"Putz."

"Girl."

Standing around, even with the distraction of smoking, was making Jack antsy. He wondered what Pop and House were talking about, and how much longer they'd be, and then another thought occurred to him. "Hey," he called to Church, who looked over slowly as if pulling himself out of deep reflection. "Why's your father here? You never mentioned he was coming to town."

Church shrugged. "I wanted it to be a surprise. He's here with Jimmy, who's speaking at a conference tomorrow."

"Ethical Factors in Oncology Research?"

Narrowing his eyes, Church asked, "How did you know?"

"Pop's giving a presentation at it."

"Two James Wilsons at one conference. Hm. Wonder how often that happens."

Jack couldn't believe how dense Church was being, or was trying to be. "You really think the fact that you and I have fathers with the same exact names is a coincidence? Even though both Wilsons are oncologists and both Houses are doctors too?"

"Your dead father was a doctor?" asked Church.

"Not after he died. But yes, while he was alive he was a doctor. One of the best diagnosticians in the world."

Church closed his eyes. "It has to be coincidence. What's the alternative?" He sighed and ground out his cigarette with more force than was necessary. "What the fuck, Jack? What the fuck?"

"I don't know." After passing the pack and lighter back to Church, who immediately lit up again, Jack flicked his cigarette against the wall to watch it bounce. It hit at a strange angle, and the ember arced away from him in an orange streak through the shadows. Conscience kicking in, Jack chased it down and stomped it out.

Church rolled his eyes, and Jack frowned back, and that was when Pop and House emerged from the pharmacy door.

Spotting Church immediately, House made a tsk-tsk sound. "So unhealthy. Weren't you raised by an oncologist? Give me that." House snatched the cigarette away and put it to his own lips, sucking in a long drag.

Pop gave House a disapproving glance before reaching out to pat Jack's arm. "House and I had a good talk, and everything's fine. He's not your father, but he's – kind of a twin. He'll explain a bit more to you, because I have to go. I'm sorry, but the conference organizer called and they need me there right now."

What, now? After Dad's same-name twin had walked into their life, and Jack had almost had a nervous breakdown as a result? "Pop," Jack pleaded, but Pop simply hugged him and then pulled back.

"You're fine, Jack. I'll call you tonight when my rehearsal's done and we can talk. Tell Mary, too, that I'm sorry I missed her but I'll see her tomorrow. Goodbye, everyone." The door to the pharmacy creaked as Pop opened it.

"See ya, Wilson," House called, and Pop smiled wistfully before walking out of sight.

"Pop," Jack repeated and tried to follow until a cane struck him across the chest, pushing him back.

He stared at House in disbelief. His own father had never touched him with his cane, ever; it felt almost like a violation.

"Let him go," said House, and Jack thought fiercely, _who the hell are you to tell me what to do with my own father?_

Drawing his cane back, House repeated, "Let him go. He needs to go."

"I'm sure the organizers could wait a few minutes," Jack protested.

"I'm sure they could," House replied. "In fact, they're going to have to."

Fuck this. Jack grabbed the door handle and pulled, until House's voice stopped him.

"He doesn't want to break down in front of you."

Refusing to turn back, Jack replied, "We're family. We support each other."

"You're his baby." Jack glanced over, not yet committing to staying. Church was twisting to take the cigarette back from House, and Jack could see where House's hand lay on Church's back. "He doesn't want you to see him like that."

"I've seen him like that before. You made him like that before." It wasn't true because he wasn't Dad, but it seemed to sting House nonetheless.

"Dad's not –" Church angrily began to accuse, but House quieted him with a yank to his arm. It was interesting to see Church so quickly acquiesce.

"No matter how many times Jimmy indicates otherwise, not everything in the world is about you, Brat." He nodded toward Jack and the door behind him. "Now shut that. I've got a story to tell you, and I don't want all the imbeciles inside to hear."

Disconcerted, Jack did as he was told. There was entirely too much going on here. He'd been up and down, and round and round, and now he was alone with a not-truly-stranger wearing his father's face. Who happened to be Church's father. Who Church apparently took after, and if that was true, they both were extraordinarily like Jack's father, and Jack couldn't fathom why he'd never noticed that about Church before. Except he had, hadn't he, without realizing it? Gestures, faces, phrases, and tones. Ways Church couldn't fool him because he'd seen it before.

Same posture, even, and Jack found it hard to repress a smile at the sight of the two of them slumped against the wall together. "Pull up some brick," House called, and Jack took the spot next to him.

After checking to see that both Jack and Church were listening, which for reasons beyond Jack's understanding required a cuff to the back of Church's head, House began.

"The story starts, as near as we can tell, one fine sunny day when a comely, if no longer fresh-faced, lass named Lisa Cuddy became pregnant."

Surprised, Jack twisted to look at him. "Aunt Lisa?"

Church lifted his head from the wall and looked past House toward Jack, equally surprised. "Aunt Lisa?"

"It's a story, hush." House waved them both back. "As I was saying, Lisa Cuddy became pregnant, and then apparently wandered into a yellow wood. When she emerged on the other side –"

"Yellow wood?" Church asked. "Reference to Asian schlong?"

Jack rolled his eyes and replied, "Reference to Frost's poem. That's where two roads diverged."

"OK, Dee and Dum," House interjected. "You want to hear this story or not?"

"Yes," said Jack.

"No," said Church.

"I like the sound of my voice so Jack wins. Gestating Lisa Cuddy emerged from the yellow wood twice. On Path One, she had a miscarriage. On Path A, she hatched the Antichrist. And then you boys know the rest. The end."

Jack was beyond annoyed. "That's a crappy story!"

House turned and regarded him, lips twisted in a half-smile. "Listen to the mouth on you. It's like you were raised by an utter ass."

"Wait a minute," Church insisted, pushing off the wall and starting to pace. "You're saying Lisa had a miscarriage before she had me."

House snorted. "I've known you for a long time, Squirt, so I'm going to assume you're being willfully lunkheaded here. What I'm saying is Lisa Cuddy had a miscarriage instead of you, where Jack grew up."

Still pacing, Church shook his head as if to clear it, and asked Jack, "Where did you grow up? Why haven't we ever talked about that?"

"Princeton, New Jersey, and I don't know." Jack turned toward House. It was a fantastical idea, but he couldn't come up with anything else that would fit. "Alternate universes, that's what you think? Then why are we both here?"

"Yes, and I don't know. Do I look like a physicist?" House smirked.

Church flung an arm towards Jack, narrowly missing his nose. "You can't have grown up in Princeton!" he insisted as he passed by. "I grew up in Princeton!"

"Alternate universes, Church. Which reminds me, if your dads are named House and Wilson and your mom – birth mom – is Cuddy, where did you get the name Bayith?"

House laughed. " _Bayith_ is Hebrew for House." He looked toward Church. "Any  particular reason you're playing Witness Protection Program?"

"It's not a big deal, but you don't want to know." Another route around a nearby trash can and then Church stopped. "Why are we still in this damn alley? I need a drink. Or several."

As they made their way toward the street, Jack felt strangely calm. Another Dad and another Pop, who had a different son, who met up with Jack at a crappy drug store in a random town that happened to be a nexus between universes. And Jack the cautious, Jack the settled, who didn't much like change, was prepared to buy it, lock, stock and barrel. Not something he would've predicted, but here they were.

Still, he felt compelled to make one last feeble gesture toward normalcy. "You're sure it's that?" he asked House. "It's not just a strange coincidence, or distant relatives, or…"

"Wilson and I went through everything. Birth dates, birth places, family history, work history – all the same up until your Cuddy lost that baby. She'd actually lost one before, but that was the same for both of us. But after the later miscarriage, or non-miscarriage in our case, existence split." House gestured toward Church and Jack on either side of him. "Door A, Church House. Door B, a little further down the road, Jack Wilson."

"And now the universes are back together?"

House followed Church off to the right, in the direction of the bar Jack and Church had first swapped stories in months ago. "Not exactly," he said. "Dr. James Wilson, Oncologist Extraordinaire from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, is scheduled to speak tomorrow morning. The conference organizers have a photo of him on their web site. Look it up on your Pop's phone, it looks like him. Look it up on my phone, the photo looks like our Jimmy."

"But if they're the same person, how can you tell?" Jack asked, trotting to keep up to Church's accelerated pace.

Snorting, Church leaned across House to reply, "Mom shaves and isn't eating himself to an early grave."

"Shut up, asshole," Jack retorted and shoved Church's shoulder, earning them both smacks from House.

"One more thing," House said when he had them separated again, "which I am only mentioning now to avoid potential future explosions from Lucifer here: I told Jack's father about Jimmy cheating on me."

Jack felt a twinge. He'd never considered the idea that his parents might have cheated on each other. Sure, Pop hadn't been faithful to Jack's stepmother, but that was different because… Jack didn't want to think about it any more.

Church's gait turned to a stomp and he asked angrily, "Why would you even bring that up?"

House glanced at Jack and then calmly regarded Church. "Wilson was disappointed, feeling his relationship was rockier than mine, so I threw him a bone. Sometimes people say something just to make a person feel better."

"People do that, yes. But you don't."

"Except when it's Wilson."

"He's not Jimmy!" Church insisted.

"But he is, somehow, Wilson," House said, and Jack was pleased to hear a gentle note to his voice. "And apparently this other version of me was a moron and hurt him. So why not make it up to him a little?"

Church's skepticism was etched across his face. "You don't believe in the afterlife, but you believe in an alternate universe?"

"I'm a man of mystery, my son."

"You're a man of –" Church muttered, but was cut off when House's expansive gesture toward the nearby building hit him across the chest.

Jack snickered at Church's grumblings and opened the door to the bar. "How do you think the intersecting-universe thing works?"

Church merely glared at him and walked through the doorway, but House stopped and looked at him for a moment. Such a familiar face, but different too. "Do you want to discuss theoretical quantum physics or hear embarrassing stories of Church's childhood?"

"Oh, the latter, definitely," Jack laughed, and they stepped into the bar.


	8. Chapter 8

Forty ounces of Gatorade, two Advil, a piece of toast, and half a cup of coffee, and Jack was finally starting to feel like he might have energy at some point before he had to leave for Pop’s speech. He hadn’t drunk that much the night before, but mixing gin, whatever the hell was in that shot, and the potent Russian Imperial Stout had not been good for him.

He was thinking about getting off the couch when Church strode through the front door and headed directly for the kitchen. “Any more of Mary’s home-made blueberry waffles?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Freezer. I’m about to take a shower.”

Church called from the kitchen, “Soap your own ass today; I’m busy.”

Putting the shower idea aside for a moment, Jack wandered in to watch Church. Waffles, toaster, syrup, coffee mug – Church acted like he owned the place. Good to know things hadn’t changed.

“You’re high,” Church declared, and Jack crossed his arms comfortably. “Dad’s high. This is all fucked up and insane, and I refuse to believe it.”

“Fair enough,” Jack replied, and shrugged. “What are you doing today?”

“Proving that this is not what you and Dad think it is.” Church’s hurry-up-you-stupid-cooking-device jig was in full swing, making Jack grin. “Go make yourself pretty, Johnny Upright,” Church snapped. “We’ve got to get to the conference.”

Thirty minutes later they walked through the main entrance of the Sheraton. Church had been sullen and uncommunicative on the way over, and Jack had kept his comments to himself. Nothing to be done for it when Church got like that.

Jack looked around the staid brass-and-leather lobby for a sign showing where the conference was, while Church fidgeted next to him. “Pop said for some reason they were going to have to change which room he’s speaking in,” Jack said, “so we’ll need to check the schedule.”

“Schedule’s up on the wall there.” Church pointed to a scrolling sign on the other side of the lobby, and immediately moved toward it in a long lope. Jack got caught up in the piles of luggage a family of six was hauling into the hotel, but was able to join Church a moment later.

“This is the hotel’s overall schedule of events,” Jack noted. “It’s not going to have the rooms for individual presentations. I think we have to go the conference registration desk, which is one floor up.” He turned his head to catch Church disappearing through a doorway. “Where are you going?”

Church paused, blocking the doorway, and looked back. “Gotta pee.”

“Now?” protested Jack, exasperated. Church remained planted, frustrating the efforts of two boys of about ten to come out of the restroom. They stood patiently for all of two seconds, and then bulldozed right past Church, knocking him into the door and the door into the wall.

“Punk kids!” Church yelled after them with a smile on his face before turning back to Jack. “Retention of urine can cause kidney damage, which you’d know if your father was a nephrologist,” he said scornfully, snottily.

“He was a –” Jack began, but the door was already swinging shut behind Church.

Jack waited four minutes patiently, and another four impatiently, before stomping into the men’s room. “Church, I swear to God –”

There was no one in the restroom.

Small space, entirely visible from the door, and no one. No one at the sinks, no one at the urinals, and no one in either of the two stalls. Jack scoured the room, high, low, and in between. He had one foot on a toilet rim, about to push himself up and start checking behind the ceiling tiles, when his cell phone rang.

Before the phone was even at his ear, he could hear Church demanding, “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m standing in a goddamned stall looking for you,” Jack retorted, as a stocky middle-aged man with a conference badge on entered the restroom. The man gave Jack a strange look; Jack realized he still had his foot on the toilet and hastily brought it down. He lowered his voice and hissed at Church, “Where did you wander off to?”

“I didn’t wander anywhere. I pissed, I walked back out of the restroom, and you weren’t there. I assumed you’d gone to powder your nose in the little girls’ room, but whatever. Just meet me at the registration desk.”

The line clicked and Church was gone. Jack had no clue how Church had slipped past him, but it wasn’t worth worrying about now. Pop’s speech was going to start soon, and they still hadn’t found the room.

Heading toward the escalator, Jack thought he caught a glimpse of Church, but when he got to the second floor, he only saw conference attendees, loosely gathered in clumps of two and three. Damn. _He’s like a cat_ , Jack thought. _Sneaky and slinky, heading off wherever his fancy takes him. He’ll probably pop out from nowhere any minute, fresh from the hunt with an injured chipmunk clenched proudly in his jaw._

Annoyed, Jack plucked a copy of the conference schedule off the registration desk. Just as House had said, only one James Wilson was presenting during the conference – in nine minutes, moved from the Quinn Salon to the Mallory Room.

After a few false starts, Jack found the room just off the main meeting corridor. Pop was up front, nodding as two middle-aged men argued around him. Jack caught his eye, waved, and smiled at the wink Pop gave in reply.

Church was nowhere to be seen, so Jack sighed and hauled out his cell phone. At the first ring, Church picked up and snapped, “Well, I’m here; where are you?”

“I’m here. And yes, everyone is always ‘here,’ given the definition of the word, but I happen to be in the Mallory Room, which is where James Wilson is giving his speech.” Jack took a chair and smiled apologetically at the woman sitting two seats down before hunching away, over his phone. “And you are not.”

“I’m in the room James Wilson is giving his speech in,” Church protested.

“What room is it?”

“I don’t know; a hot little meeting planner escorted me here.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Ask somebody what room it is.”

“I’m not asking somebody. You ask somebody and get your ass over here.”

“I’m in the right place, Church. I’m looking at Pop right now.”

“Fuck this. I’m going to ping your GPS so you can find me.” After a pause, Church returned. “There. Look at your damn phone and come here.”

Even as he brought the phone away from his ear and into his line of sight, Jack knew what he would see.

“According to this,” he informed Church, “I’m sitting two and a half feet in front of you. Do you see me? Because I don’t see you.”

Church huffed a growl into the phone. “You’re obviously doing it wrong. Ping me and I’ll find you, you lazy moron.”

Trying to ignore the nearby woman who was now glaring full-force, Jack hit the buttons. “There.”

A few seconds later, Church muttered, “Stupid fucked-up thing.” He huffed again and then said louder, “Just come find me, Jack.”

“The GPS isn’t fucked up, Church. You and I are in the same room, just not in the same universe. Just like your Dad said.”

“My Dad’s a recreational user of drugs and a champion bullshitter.” His voice changed in volume and tone; he was clearly addressing someone else. “Yes, shockingly enough, I used a profanity. You can hold that moue until your face freezes that way, but eavesdropping’s a worse sin, so you’ll be the one going to etiquette hell. Old biddy.”

Jack shook his head at Church’s boorish words, until he looked up and saw the woman two seats down from him had a disdainful moue of her own. ‘Biddy’ was about right. He turned away from her and asked Church, “Is Jimmy there?”

“Yeah, he’s up at the lectern, about to start.”

“And Pop’s here, and the room’s settling down.” A sudden thought hit Jack, and he rushed his next words. “We’re going to lose our connection any second. When we do, walk out the back door of the room and meet me in the hall.”

“What?” Church asked incredulously. “This place has great reception; there’s no way –”

“Thank you for coming,” Pop began, and as Jack had predicted, his phone went dead, cutting Church off in mid-sentence. He ducked his head and tried to be inconspicuous as he left the room. He could feel Pop’s eyes on him, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to get back to Church, couldn’t let –

Halfway out the door, his thoughts were knocked off their track as someone collided roughly with him. Full speed, heavy, banging into his back, legs tangling; he barely had time to get his hands under him before he hit the carpet. He was kicked in the ribs and a foot came very close to his ear, as Church yelled, “Fuck!”

Jack lifted his head to see Church take a few stumbling steps – lengthy, damn, the man had long legs – and then come to a halt before whirling around. “Where’d you come from? You could’ve killed me!”

“Yeah. I think you were in more danger of – ow – killing me, barreling into me like that,” Jack retorted as he pushed up and got back to his feet.

Church crossed his arms and glared. “I guess you think this proves something.”

“You mean the fact that we came out of supposedly different rooms by the same exact doorway?” Jack wiped fuzz off his pants and patted his hair back into place, in part because he wanted to, and in part because he knew it’d drive Church batty. Why just be right, when you could be right and annoying? “Or the other fact, that we physically can not listen to my Pop and your Mom at the same time?”

Closing his eyes, Church shook his head. His face was drawn, and Jack felt a wave of pity for him. “Pity” had always been a dirty word in Jack’s house – and in Church’s too, he’d assume – implying weakness, but in this moment it was the right word and heartfelt. Even though he didn’t know why Church was having such a hard time adjusting to this, Jack felt intense sorrow for his suffering and wanted to help. How was the hard part.

When Church opened his eyes and turned abruptly away, Jack followed after him. Down the escalator, through the lobby, and right into the hotel’s restaurant, where they still had the breakfast buffet out. “Two beers,” Church snapped at the hostess before she could even get the menus out from their holder.

“But it’s breakfast time,” she replied, her sunny smile slipping a little.

“Fine,” Church said, “then we’ll have mimosas, or Bloody Marys, or whatever the hell you normally serve to the flower-hatted ladies after church. A pitcher full.” He jerked his head toward the bar, and then stomped away to a table near the windows. Jack followed, trying to hide his smile. He didn’t like to drink this early, and certainly not on top of the slight hangover he still had from the day before, but what the hell. Church House possibly admitting he didn’t know everything was not your everyday occurrence.

They sat for a few moments in silence, broken only by Church’s grunt of thanks as the hostess set down two small pitchers. Apparently, she hadn’t wanted to guess wrong and had brought both drinks Church had mentioned. Good thing. Jack hated tomato juice.

After half a glass of mimosa, when Church’s expression had softened a touch, Jack said, “Hey.” He waited for Church to look him in the eye, then shrugged. “It explains why you don’t want to have sex with me.”

“Because I’ve magically sensed that we’re genetically related?” Church smirked.

“Or you’re extraordinarily observant enough to pick up all the clues and supremely brilliant enough to put them all together properly and come to the correct if improbable solution that no other person could have deduced.”

As Church stretched out and threw an arm over the back of his chair, his eyes narrowed contemplatively. “That does sound like me.”

Jack hid his smile behind the motion of bringing his glass to his lips. “Yeah, I thought so.”

“So,” Church said, and Jack could see the corner being turned, could see the acceptance growing in Church from the inside out. A warmth and peace settled inside Jack, the feeling of a circle being closed at last. He thought back to the metaphor he’d concocted the first time they went for beers together: twin planets with matched orbits. He’d been more correct than he knew.

“So,” Church repeated, while pouring another drink into first his and then Jack’s glass. “Seeing as how you’re my kid brother and all, the way I see it, I’ve got over twenty years of harassment I’ve got to catch up on. You’re going to be in for a rough winter.”

“The way I see it,” Jack replied, tilting his glass toward Church in a quick toast, “you’ve got over twenty years of birthday presents you owe me.”

That got him a huge eyeroll. “Oh, yeah. I’ll get Mom out shopping just as soon as the conference is over. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get a pony.”

Jack started to snicker and somehow missed Church getting up from his seat. The next thing he knew, a long arm was around his neck and knuckles were digging into his scalp. “Hey! Ow!” he protested, but Church tightened his grip. Jack hadn’t gotten many noogies as a kid, but he’d seen his friend Teddy escape from his brothers plenty of times.

By going limp Jack gained the element of surprise and was able to rock his chair back and twist at the same time. He and Church tumbled to the floor, rolling and grappling for position. Before they got thrown out of the hotel, Jack had pinned Church twice and only been pinned once himself, which he considered a victory.

***

House stared at the welcome mat outside the kid’s door. This had to be one of the most harebrained ideas the Brat had ever come up with. “Like regression therapy,” he’d said during the short phone call, as if either one of them really believed in that crap.

Speak of the devil, the Devil opened the door and pulled House in. “Good, you’re here.”

They were in the living room of the apartment and the kid was nowhere to be found. House tried one last time to talk some sense into his progeny. “This isn’t going to accomplish –”

“Just do it, okay?” Church’s expression was… interesting. Determined and anxious and something else, something that was a bit like the way the boy looked at Jimmy. Interesting.

A door somewhere banged loudly, and then the kid stumbled into view, giggling his fool head off.

“Jack, shit, what did you take?” The Brat was at the kid’s side in seconds, helping him reach the couch and then sink into it, clutching at the couch’s arm.

“Nothing,” the kid protested. “But do we have any more mimosas? You make ’em better than that restaurant did this morning. Mmm, mimosas. Mimo, memo, momo. Hey, did you know ‘momo’ means peach in Japanese? I wonder why they don’t call them momosas.”

“Because they’re not made with peaches. Come on, you weren’t this bad off when you went in the bathroom.”

“I’m not that bad,” the kid replied, taking a deep breath. “As you remind me all the damn time.”

The Brat rolled his eyes and then nodded. House took this moment to step up. “Hi, Jack.”

Jack screwed his eyes shut and let out an explosive breath. “Hi, Daddy,” he said, his eyes still closed. “I miss you.”

House groaned inwardly and shot the Devil Incarnate a fierce glare. He didn’t sign up for “Daddy.” Regression, fine, but not all the way to toddler stage with “Daddy” and tantrums and tears, tears, tears.

He was halfway to the door when a hand wrapped around his bicep and stopped him short. When’d the Punk get so strong? He only had a second to wonder and then Church was shoving him back into the living room, toward the couch and kid. “Sit!” the Punk ordered.

As soon as he’d sat on the center cushion of the couch, the kid leaned into his side. This made his left arm uncomfortable, so he pulled it out and put it on the back of the sofa, which of course encouraged the kid to lean in closer. Stupid.

Stupid Jimmy got House into this mess, with his stupid “let’s get married and take in Cuddy’s spawn” and his stupid contagious fawning over the little baby terror and how the hell was House supposed to know you could fall in love with an infant and keep that annoying infatuation going for twenty-five years until you ended up on a couch in a tiny apartment with a very drunk kid you barely knew leaning on you, invading your space, just because the fruit of your loins asked you to be here?

Stupid Jimmy.

House realized with a start that he was stroking the kid’s hair, and it felt very familiar. Like Jimmy’s. Almost the same color, too, or at least the color Jimmy’s used to be before it was Clairol 116B. He could also see Wilson in the kid’s nose and cheekbones, although the body type was all House.

The kid shifted a little, pushing closer, and House’s arm dropped from the back of the couch to the kid’s shoulders. It felt fine, not too horribly awkward, and the kid sighed like maybe he was happy.

It shouldn’t have been surprising that on close inspection he looked like Wilson. Church had shown House a picture of the kid’s surrogate, and she could definitely have been Wilson’s sister.

 _In any universe, that’s the kind of good luck I have_, House mused. _Not ordinary good luck like, say, not having an infarction or finding effective non-addictive pain management or having a life in which most people I meet aren’t complete idiots. No, I have the crazily implausible good luck that results in finding, without any effort, a ready, willing, and able Wilson in a skirt to produce a baby for us. Or finding Wilson himself, smart and complex enough to hold my interest, stupid and stubborn enough to stick around._

House hugged the kid a little tighter and then held out his right arm, inviting the Brat to come sit with him. If he was going to be this absurdly mushy, might as well have the devil he knew in there too. To his surprise, Church came over and tucked his lanky frame into House’s right side, curly head laying across from Jack’s straight one.

Now it was time for the “therapy” the hellion had asked for. _Ought to be able to do this, with how much time I’ve spent at that headshrinker’s._ “Jack, I want you to listen to me.”

“Yeah, Dad?” was the muffled reply.

“I apologize for running out on you when you were eight.” The kid’s head started to come up, so House shoved it back down. This was embarrassing enough; no way was he going to do it if he had to look anybody in the face.

“I’ve thought about it,” he continued, just as the Brat had coached him, “and it was the wrong decision. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“You were there for me,” Jack protested, and if it sounded a little choked, it was probably simply because he was practically chewing House’s shirt. “I just – wanted you home. Pop missed you so much. And so did I when I wasn’t with you.”

“It was the wrong decision.”

Not something that had ever come out of his mouth a lot, about decisions he’d made, but the words were so very easy to say when it was someone else’s boneheaded play. And of all the boneheaded plays, this one was pretty damn thick-skulled, so House could make his statement with conviction, and even apologize on behalf of this doppelganger who was apparently an idiot of the highest order.

This next part, though, House wasn’t sure he understood. _Scratch that_. He  knew he didn’t understand, and the Brat had been loath to offer up details. He nudged Brat’s shoulder, and the spawn reached up and squeezed his hand. That squeeze had been learned from Jimmy – it was the one that said, “I’m being polite in mixed company but you’d better shape up and fly right this instant or there will be hell to pay when we get behind closed doors.”

Church (and House) usually dispensed with the politeness rather than doling out the squeeze. It underlined how special Brat thought these circumstances were, so House gave in – just this once – and said something purely to bring another person happiness.

“And Jack, I never should have made that rule. You know the one. I wanted to keep you from getting hurt, and in the process I hurt you, which I never, never wanted to do. I was blind and I’m sorry.”

The kid inhaled sharply and started to move his arms, and House braced himself for a hug. Instead, the kid reached around House and grabbed Church, pulling him up off House’s chest and hugging him tightly.

“Thank you. Thank you for doing this,” the kid breathed, and to House’s astonishment, the Brat was hugging back just as strongly.

House pushed himself back into the sofa cushion as far as he could go, trying to get some distance from this puppy-pile in front of him. He happened to look up, and there was Wilson – the kid’s Wilson, not his Jimmy – standing in the doorway. And there was the fawning, smitten look House remembered from so long ago, and apparently it was contagious not only in the giving of it but in the receiving of it, because Wilson was bestowing it not only on the kid but on the Brat and maybe, if House wasn’t mistaken, on him too.

“Thank you,” Wilson mouthed, his lips moving slowly and carefully, and House had to look away.


	9. Character (an interlude)

"Where the hell are your gloves?" Church shouts.

Jack shifts the rake to his other hand and stares at him. It's chilly, but it's not chilly enough to need gloves. And since when does Church mother-hen him?

"You're going to get blisters," Church admonishes, throwing his own rake down and yanking the stiff, heavy gloves off his hands.

"Oh, I guess so," Jack replies, looking at the rake and his hands, and then jerking back as Church's gloves smack him in the face.

He stoops to find them in the ankle-high layer of leaves up while Church walks to the fence and starts raking with short, quick strokes. "I can't believe you've never done this before," Church says scornfully. "Did you grow up in the tropics?"

"We had a lawn service. Don't you need these gloves?" Jack waves them in Church's direction.

"I'm planning on sticking you with ninety percent of the work, so no. _Lawn service_. Pussy elitist."

"Your parents were both doctors!" The gloves are weather-stiffened, tough and awkward on Jack's hands. "I can't believe you guys didn't have a lawn service."

" _Chores build character_ ," Church intones. He's creating a two-foot wide clean path all around the fence line, Jack notes. "Dad did hire a couple of guys to rake leaves one year, when I was ten or so," Church continues, "but Mom put a big old stop to that."

Jack puzzles over that as he tries his hand at making a similar open path further along the fence line. His is nowhere near as straight or clean as Church's.

"In your stories," Jack says, grunting a little with the exertion of raking, "and accounting for the way I know you, um, color them, your Mom doesn't seem like that much of a slave driver. What was his objection to hiring the service?"

Church stops and regards Jack with a smirk. "They weren't a service. They were two guys, nineteen or so."

"So they weren't insured?"

Church laughs loudly, the sound ringing through the crisp air. "That wasn't the problem. They were nineteen. And built."

Totally confused, Jack stares at Church. Strong, healthy - sounds like the kind of people who'd be good at physical labor.

"And," Church continues, "they raked with their shirts off..."

"Oh." Jack turns back to the raking to hide his embarrassment at missing the point.

Church laughs again, and then an armful of leaves are raining down on Jack's head. "Mom didn't mind being known as the queer doctors down the street, but he didn't want to be known as the perv queer doctors down the street. Besides, chores build character."

Jack glares at Church from behind the veil of leaves, because it's expected, because Church wants him to, because saying _I love you, dude_ , would get him soundly mocked. "That explains why Pop never made me rake leaves, then," he says.

"Why?" Church asks. There's a tiny bright-red leaf caught in one of his curls, and it makes him look like a faun.

"Because I already had character."

The pile of leaves isn't large enough yet, so Jack's back thumps soundly into the ground when Church tackles him.


	10. Vision (an interlude)

Wilson smoothes his shirt down for what must be the dozenth time and wishes he had a mirror. He hasn't looked at himself in a long time - his mother covered the mirrors during _shiva_ , and he's never taken the dark cloths back off.

He's nervous. This isn't how he's used to looking, isn't how he pictures himself in his mind's eye. He's given himself a costume, he thinks sometimes, although the truth behind the beard and the extra weight is much simpler. He just wanted the warmth.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a slow Tuesday evening at the pharmacy. Church was pretending to stock gum; Jack was trying to convince himself he was taking inventory, but really he was shooting the shit with Church. What might have been the store’s only customers were on aisle seven.

They were a well-dressed couple in their mid- to late-thirties; she was white, and he was black, and they were very, very ordinary. The only reason Jack noticed them was that the woman was ranting, and occasionally her voice would get loud and high at the same time.

“She’s driving me crazy, Aaron. Absolutely nuts.” The woman was picking up bottles of pain relievers, reading the labels, and putting them back again. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Miriam, she’s your mother.” Aaron sighed and drew a hand down the woman’s back.

“She’s a bitch,” Miriam insisted vehemently. Aaron’s hand stiffened on her back, and he looked around as if to gauge who might have heard. Jack ducked his head before Aaron turned in his direction, and pretended to be reading something on the counter in front of him. Church, of course, didn’t bother with subtleties and kept staring at the couple, ignoring Aaron’s glare.

“I have no idea why I agreed to let her come on this vacation with us,” Miriam continued, and Aaron returned his gaze to her.

He began to stroke her back again and replied, “Because you knew your father wouldn’t leave her behind.”

Miriam sighed. “Oh, Dad. He’s a saint. How’s he done it all these years, putting up with her? Any clue?”

“Regular nookie breaks with sweet, vulnerable nurses,” declared the elderly woman who had suddenly appeared in the aisle, a small girl of about four clinging to her left hand and a cane clasped heavily in her right. “Even if he wasn’t a Jew and therefore a killer of Christ, he still wouldn’t be eligible for canonization. Stop being such a Daddy’s girl.”

Miriam’s jaw clenched; Aaron appeared to be holding back a smirk. His face fell, however, when the little girl piped up, “Mommy, what does ‘octoroon’ mean?”

“Where did you hear that word?” Miriam demanded, snatching the girl away and bringing her up onto her hip.

“Grandma,” the girl and Aaron said at the same time.

Smiling, Grandma stepped forward and tugged gently at one of the girl’s braids. “It means, Esther-Bo-Bester, that you have a gorgeous skin tone, much nicer than your Mommy’s pale freckly epidermis.”

“I like Mommy’s skin,” Esther protested, stroking gently at her mother’s cheek. Miriam smiled and stroked a hand across her daughter’s head.

“Of course you do,” Grandma noted, although she had already turned and was looking the other way down the aisle. “You’ll like everything about your mother until you’re eleven or so. Then the hormones will start to kick in and every single thing she does and says will irritate you, grating on your nerves until eventually you’re calling her a bitch behind her back in a run-down pharmacy in Podunkville.”

Miriam tucked the little girl’s head closer into her shoulder and opened her mouth to respond, but was run over by Grandma’s sudden shout of “Wilson!”

Jack and Church exchanged knowing glances as they heard the faint reply from the other side of the store, “Coming! Hold your horses.”

Not waiting, Grandma approached the counter. “Prescription for James Wilson, called in this morning,” she said, and then tilted her head toward Church. “What are you looking at?”

“You, Sexy,” Church replied, licking his lips.

“Church,” Jack warned in a low tone, because there was inappropriate and then there was incest. He was completely ignored by both parties.

The woman’s chin tilted up as she regarded Church. “You’re not bad. A little young to have decent experience, but I’d be telling you what to do anyway. Sure, why not? My husband owes me one for that diner in Schenectady.”

“House, I was not flirting with that waitress,” her husband insisted as he came up behind her. He looked almost exactly like Pop had before Dad died. A few more wrinkles, a little bit thinner, but quite obviously the same person. Church was agog, but neither one of them seemed to have noticed yet.

The little boy who’d been holding Wilson’s hand gave the woman – House – a quick hug around the waist and ran back to his mother.

“Sure, you weren’t,” House replied to Wilson, and then snapped her fingers in Jack’s face. “Prescription?”

He had to turn away to look for the bag – the morning shift didn’t seem to use the same alphabet everyone else did – but could hear every word of their conversation.

“Even if I was flirting, which I wasn’t, how would you having an affair be equivalent?”

“A,” House said, her tone turning wry, “a quick boff in the back room is not exactly an affair. And B, how is you having multiple affairs equivalent to me having none?”

“It’s been years, House,” Wilson replied through clenched teeth. “Are you ever going to let it go?”

“Are you ever going to quit thinking with your –”

“It was a terrible period in our lives. You hated me. I needed a little time with someone who didn’t hate me.”

“You apparently needed time with more than one someone who didn’t hate you.”

“I love you, House,” Wilson replied fiercely as he snatched the prescription from Jack’s hand, signed the pharmacy log, and threw down cash. “Torture me all you want, but I’m never leaving you.”

Jack watched Church and House as they watched Wilson stalk back to his daughter’s family and herd them toward the front door. A smile started to creep across House’s face, softening her craggy features. “He’s cute when he gets all needled, isn’t he?” she said to no one in particular, and walked out after her family.

For a few seconds more Jack contemplated Church, who kept looking in the direction the House-Wilson clan had gone. “You’re not freaking about this?” he asked.

Church shrugged. “Once you accept the universe in which you grew up isn’t the only one in existence, it doesn’t matter how many more there are. Our sister was hot for an older gal, wasn’t she?”

“Well, she lucked out and got both our parents’ genes, so it’s not surprising.” Chuckling, Jack put the money in the cash register and straightened the pharmacy log. If he could look back at the logs throughout the past few decades, he wondered if he’d find more J. Wilsons and G. Houses, and maybe even a Cuddy or two.

It should have been a freaky concept, Jack thought, but it wasn’t. He was puzzling over that contradiction when he heard a “thwip” sound and the edge of his ear started to sting. Making a face, he pressed his palm to his ear to lessen the pain where Church had flicked him.

“You think too much,” Church admonished, and hoisted a crate of gum to his hip.

“You don’t think enough,” Jack retorted.

“Makes us perfect for each other,” Church called over his shoulder as he sauntered off toward the storeroom.

***

Jack was practically twitching. He’d been putting this conversation off for days but he couldn’t delay any more. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right.

What was driving him the most crazy was that he couldn’t predict how the conversation would go, what Church’s reactions would be. Which was stupid. It wasn’t like the world was coming to an end. A simple thing, not much in the grand scheme of things, and if he could just open his mouth, just say the words, Church would be fine, and he would be fine, and this wouldn’t affect –

He heard a “thwip” sound and his ear started to sting.

“You think too much,” Church said as he dropped into the chair next to Jack and pulled Jack’s Tupperware container over in front of himself.

Jack took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

“When did you and I get married?” Church said around a mouthful of corned beef. “Mary’s going to be pissed that all that wedding planning she’s doing is for naught.”

“Be serious.”

Church swallowed his food and pulled the most over-exaggerated serious face Jack had ever seen. Given the way Jack’s Dad liked to make the same face, that was saying a lot.

“Mr. Wilson,” Church intoned, “I beseech thee, do continue.”

There would never be a better time. Jack imagined a parachute drill sergeant from an old war movie shouting _Go, go, go, go!_ , opened his mouth, and said it.

“I’m going.”

“Excuse me?” Church replied, and took another bite of sandwich.

Wrong words, damn. “I mean, Mary got a call recently, and she’s been offered a job in New Jersey, and we’re going to take it. Um, she’s going to take it. We’re moving.”

Church dropped the sandwich and pushed back his chair, turning to more directly face Jack. “Why now? Mary had a job offer three months ago and turned it down. The new pharmacy assistants used to be total buffoons but you whipped them into shape. You bitched about the weather all winter long in this frigid craphole but made it through. Why move now that spring’s finally on the way?”

“It’s not any of that. It’s –” Jack pulled his sandwich out of Church’s hand and took a bite to buy himself a moment. He couldn’t believe how hard it still was to talk about his family. “Pop’s not doing that well lately. Seeing your Dad last fall, it just brought back to him how alone he is. He was okay for a while, but now I’m really starting to get worried.”

Looking at the table, he continued, “Pop needs to get reconnected to the world. I think if Mary and I are there, in the same town, it’ll help.”

“Same town? You’re moving to Princeton? No.” When Jack looked up, Church was shaking his head. “What about Manhattan or Philadelphia? Bigger places, more job opportunities.”

“Mary’s job offer is in Princeton, and I can work anywhere. Besides, the whole point is to be close to Pop, not over an hour away.”

“What about Edison, then, or Trenton? Or I hear Hopewell Township’s nice.”

This was getting weird. Jack had no clue where this was coming from. “What is your problem?” he asked.

Church’s glare clearly conveyed _You are an idiot_. “If you move to Princeton, I won’t be able to visit you.”

“What?” Jack hadn’t expected to hear that. “Why not? I could help you with the gas money.”

“That’s not it. Remember Jimmy’s speech? We were in the same room but couldn’t see each other? Your Princeton’s not my Princeton. I won’t be able to see you in that town.”

Jack pushed up out of his chair and walked over to the vending machine. What was that snack Church liked? Funyuns, that was it. “Maybe that’s not how it works.”

“Who the hell did you get your intelligence genes from? Doesn’t sound like Dad from the way you’re talking now. Look, was there a guy in your high school named Eddie Blakeman?”

“Yeah, a band geek.” Smiling, Jack threw the snack to Church, who immediately set it on the table. “Wow, I haven’t thought of him in ages. On the way back from this class trip, he was chewing on a bassoon reed and got it stuck in the back of his throat –”

“I know, and Dad had to trache him in the parking lot of the high school,” Church said, eyes boring into Jack’s. “So he’s definitely going to remember Dad. Do you think if you asked him, he’d remember me? If I asked him, would he remember you?”

 _No_ was the only answer, and Jack had to close his eyes for a moment. “Are you sure Hopewell would be any better?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know,” Church said. “I just know Princeton’s hopeless.”

Jack told himself, over and over, all throughout the packing and the farewell party and the last trip to skip stones and the last dinner with Jer and the hugs goodbye and the wave from the moving truck, that Church was wrong. It just couldn’t be, that doing the thing his heart told him was right would mean sacrificing the brother he’d had hardly any time to enjoy.

Church wasn’t wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miriam and her mother are the creation of [](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/profile)[**thedeadparrot**](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/) [here](http://thedeadparrot.com/fiction/?p=96) and then [here](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/391409.html?thread=1824241#t1824241).


	12. Chapter 12

Jack looked up from the computer and stared at his cell phone. The ringtone currently trilling was for family only, but the name on the ID was Beth Kerk. He didn’t know any Beths, except for Beth Israel where Pop was consulting this week. Beth Israel. Beth, a form of _bayith_ , Hebrew for “house.” And Kerk…

He fumbled the phone but got it turned on somehow. “Church?”

“Jack, you son of a bitch. After all these months finally you answer the damn phone!”

Something multi-cornered and sticky had lodged itself in his throat; he tried to breathe around it. “Like you have any room to talk, dickface, changing your phone number without ever telling me.”

“I never changed my number,” Church retorted. “When I tried to call you, it would ring and ring.”

“You’ve never shown up on my received calls list. Every time I tried to reach you, it said the number was disconnected.”

They sat in silence for a moment, until Jack began to panic that the connection would be lost. “Church, why did you call? What do you want from me?”

“Why do I have to want something from you? Am I that much of an asshole?”

“Yes,” Jack said dismissively, “but that’s not how I mean it. You called me even though you thought I wouldn’t answer. What did you want to say?”

“I don’t want to say this at all.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Dad’s dead.”

The icy cloud that sank through Jack’s skin was no less painful for being familiar. His thoughts collided and shattered, leaving his tongue empty.

After a minute, Church asked, “Jack? Still there?”

“Yeah. That just hit me hard.”

“Imagine how I feel.”

“I don’t have to.”

Church blew out a long breath. “God, it’s been ridiculous, totally pissing me off, the way people keep saying they know how I feel.”

“Well, I do. That’s why you called me.”

“Shut up. You’re not me. You didn’t have my Dad, my Jimmy.”

“How is Jimmy?”

“I don’t know. Weird.”

“He’s depressed. He’ll be that way for a while. Nothing you can do.”

“It’s fucking annoying. He’s supposed to be the parent; he’s supposed to be worrying about me instead of me worrying about him.”

“It works both ways – probably will for the rest of our lives. Besides being annoyed and pissed off, how do you feel?”

Silence. Jack strained to try to hear Church’s breathing, to get any clue as to where he was emotionally.

“Does it get any better?” Church asked quietly, the most subdued Jack had ever heard him. Jack had no doubt whatsoever what Church was referring to.

“You get used to it. It transitions from acute to chronic, and then you – figure out how to manage. Dad’s last lesson: how to deal with chronic pain.”

“I guess it’d suck even worse if it went away altogether.”

Jack thought about it for a moment, imagining, his chest growing heavy. “You’re right; it would.” He chewed his lip and set his mind in a more positive direction. “It helps me to think about how I’ll see him again after I die.”

After a brief pause, during which Jack could perfectly picture Church’s expression of scorn and pity, Church replied, “Sucker. There’s no afterlife.”

“That was Dad’s view. I believe heaven’s waiting for us.”

Church scoffed. “Waiting for the perfect apple-polishing suck-ups. You and I and Dad sure as hell ain’t getting in.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“God’s talking to you now? Classic sign of mental illness.”

There was the Church he knew. Jack couldn’t help smiling, in spite of the grief he was sharing with Church. “I believe what I believe. God’s got infinite compassion and infinite capacity. We’re all getting in: you and me, Jer and Mary, your Mom and my Pop, your Dad and my Dad.”

“And on the giant fluffy cloud we’re going to connect up how?”

“How did we connect up the first time? I don’t know. I just know it won’t be heaven unless you’re there.”

“I think I heard that song on the radio the other day. Fuck, you’re a flirt. Pervert.”

God, he loved this ass so much. Jack pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Pop always wanted me to have a brother or sister.”

“Mom and Dad always said they couldn’t handle another me,” Church said in a bragging tone, pleased and smug. Jack imagined him kicked back and stretched out, long legs crossed at the ankle.

Jack replied warmly, “They were lying.”

“No, they really weren’t. I’ve been an asshole my whole life.”

“Doesn’t mean a sibling would be too. Look how I turned out.”

“Sanctimonious prig?”

“Exactly.” Jack smiled and then had to hold back a sigh. He missed this. He hadn’t even realized how much until he had it again, and the feeling was threatening to overwhelm him.

They sat in silence for a bit, until Jack heard a large swallow from the other end of the phone.

“So,” Church said shakily, and then cleared his throat. His next words were stronger – moment over, good – as he asked, “Has Mary dumped your ass yet?”

“You didn’t get the wedding invitation?” Jack hadn’t expected the card to get there, not when phone and email hadn’t worked, but it was still a disappointment.

“I did get it,” Church replied, shocking Jack. “Two days too late. Fucking dinosaur Postal Service. Should’ve been disbanded decades ago.”

Jack grinned. It got through; awesome. “Well, you know, cross-universe is one of their lesser-used services. Probably had to bring in a subcontractor.” Writing letters was a piece of cake for Jack; Church was going to have to get used to a full mailbox.

“Fuck it. How’s it feel to be married?”

“Great,” Jack said, nodding his head even though Church couldn’t see. “Stable.”

Church let out a groaning sigh. “Boring.”

“No way.” There was this thing that Mary was willing to do now that Jack had never… but Church didn’t need to know that.

“Bambinos?”

“Later. We’re having fun with just ourselves now.”

“I bet you are. You’re not getting any younger, though.” Church’s voice morphed into an impression of a very familiar person. “ _It might be smart to start now if you want me to be able to_ –”

“– _help out at all with my grandchildren_. Yeah. Pop hasn’t said anything directly, but the wistful looks at Mary’s midsection are nagging enough.”

“How is your Pop?”

“You’re inquiring after the wellbeing of another person? Wait a minute; I thought I was talking to Church House.”

“He’s the reason you walked out on me. I’m just hoping he’s on his deathbed so you can move your ass back here soon.”

Church had the same talent as Jack’s Dad – hiding a true sentiment in sarcasm. Instead of being offended, Jack felt absurdly fond of the bastard.

“Pop’s doing much better. Still has his moments of sadness but overall he’s pulling out of his depression. Moving back here was the right decision. Walking out on you was just a side bonus.”

Church growled, “Fucker,” and Jack smiled.

“It wasn’t in vain; that’s all I’m saying. He’s going to stick around now, keep going, and that’s why I left New York to move here. You know you’d make the same sacrifice for your family.”

“I did make it.” Such simple words but the emotion behind them filled Jack’s heart. He’d been waiting his whole life for this, he realized, for someone who understood.

Church quietly continued, “I love you, Jack.”

It was so sincere, so heartfelt, so… un-Church-like. Jack snickered. “Pussy.”

“Shut up,” Church groused. “You’re the one who wears girls’ underwear.”

“Right.” Jack couldn’t suppress his grin. “You know you’re Penny in Pigtails.”

“I am not! I’m the Antichrist asshole.”

“Yeah, I forgot. I love you, too.”

After grumbling for a moment – a happy sort of grumble, if Jack wasn’t mistaken – Church said, “Mom’s going to be here soon; I’ll have to go.”

That brought a damper on Jack’s mood. “I don’t want you to,” he said, trying not to whine.

“What, you want to stay on the phone forever? You’re really that curious about gay sex, that you’ll listen in when I’m fucking Jer?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “You can hold off until I’m sleeping.”

“Generous of you. I don’t have unlimited minutes on this phone, anyway.”

Pulling the phone away, Jack stared at it briefly before returning it to his ear. “Who doesn’t have unlimited minutes? I didn’t even think there were plans without unlimited minutes any more.”

“Starving student, remember?”

“Still?”

“Quit bitching at me. Sanctimonious prig.”

“Lazy good-for-nothing prick,” Jack accused in retort.

“Hey, my prick is good for a lot of things!”

“Definitely more than I ever want to know. So,” he said, drawing the word out, “what are you studying now?”

Church snorted. “Stop changing the subject – I do have to get off the phone.”

“I know, I know.” There was an unpleasant tingle under Jack’s skin and he clutched the phone tighter. “I just have this feeling that once we hang up, we won’t be able to get in touch again.”

“Yeah, I think so too,” Church sighed. “But you can’t live your life with a phone stuck to your ear.”

“They’re actually working on this implant –”

“Jack.”

Jack swallowed and tried to ignore the tightness in his throat. “I’m going to miss you, brother.”

“Me too. Maybe we’ll get another chance some day. I’ll keep trying, at least.” Something rustled; Church was shifting, moving somehow. “Not that you deserve it.”

“Yeah, like you do.” Grabbing for a pen, Jack asked, “You still at the same address? I’ll write to you.”

Church shifted again. “I’m still there, but I’m not much of a correspondent.”

“I don’t care,” Jack said definitively. “This way, at least, I’ll always get the last word.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Jack smirked at his own transparency. “Take it whatever way you want. But I will say if you don’t at least try, I’m so going to bitch you out when I see you in heaven.”

“I told you, loser, there’s no afterlife.”

“You get the afterlife you think you will. It doesn’t matter whether you see me; I’ll definitely see you.”

“Quit making me cry. Mom’s walking in; I have to go. Bye.”

Jack squeezed the receiver one last time and closed his eyes. “See you, House.”

“Yeah,” Church sighed. “See you, Wilson.”

~end~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Song To Be Sung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/185293) by [Nightdog_Barks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks)
  * [A'Changin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/189862) by [anamatics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics)




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